


Hartshorn

by cadastre



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Dissociation, Drowning, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sensory Deprivation, There's an OC, Violence, but actually this is about Caleb Widogast, it's not a happy story, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-11-07 22:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17968946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadastre/pseuds/cadastre
Summary: Caleb won’t pretend that he has any self-respect left after his years with Ikithon and on the run. He won’t pretend like he isn’t intimately familiar with the feeling growing in his chest, the empty nothingness blooming and flowering in between his ribs.But just because he knows what happens now and what happens next doesn’t mean he likes it.-----Set prior to the start of Campaign 2. Caleb and Nott get trapped at an inn by a blizzard.Finished work, will be uploading chapters approximately once a week.





	1. Chapter I.

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE pay attention to warnings. This is not a happy story. It has a lot of sexual assault and trauma in it. Consider yourself warned.
> 
> Un-beta'd.

The snow starts to fall at 2:54 in the afternoon.

They are still a good hour-and-a-half away from anywhere, the rutted road winding its way upward through the steep-sided valley towards the pass. Pines tower over them on either side of the road, blocking most of the delicately drifting flakes, but the flat grey clouds promise that the trees won’t provide cover from the snow for long.

Caleb turns to Nott as she opens her mouth to catch a flake on her tongue, and she smiles at him. Caleb smiles back, but he knows it doesn’t meet his eyes. They were warned that winter always came early in the mountains beyond the Marrow Valley, but he had assumed that they would be early enough to avoid the worst of it. He can see now exactly how wrong he was, and he pulls his battered coat closer against the cold that is already starting to make his fingers ache.

“There will be more of this soon,” he says, glancing again at the sky through the boughs of the trees. The sun is so thickly covered by the pregnant clouds that the light is strange and dispersed, a blue-tinted twilight under the tree cover.

“How far is it?” Nott asks around the tongue she has stuck out to catch another. Perhaps another three or four miles, Caleb thinks, trying to estimate distances in his head based on a map he stole a glance at in a vendor’s stall several days before.

“Far enough,” he eventually murmurs, knowing it isn’t much of an answer. But distances won’t matter if it starts to snow in earnest and they get lost in a storm. Nott nods like that answers her question and pulls her cloak around herself.

\------------------

By 3:48 it is snowing very hard indeed, hard enough that it is difficult for Caleb to blink his eyes clear to see the path.

Wind sweeps through the trees, making the tops move like a drifting, storm-wracked ocean above them, and there is already an inch or two of snow gathering on the ground. The wind does not so much cut as it punctures, like sticking a sewing needle in a finger. It finds its way through every poorly sewn patch and yet-unpatched hole in Caleb’s coat. He has long since stuck Frumpkin in his coat to keep him warm, but he can feel his Familiar burrow closer to try to get out of range of the cold air.

He is not _afraid_ yet; they are close enough to what was marked as an inn on the map that he is certain they will make it before night falls or the storm gets any worse. But a gnawing worry has begun to grow in his empty belly, concern about what they might find when they get to where the inn is supposed to be. The map was not recently made: the inn might not be there anymore, and they may be faced with braving the storm in its burned-out husk or even trying to shelter underneath a log or at the base of a tree.

They have no tent, and the ache in his fingers says he might not even be able to conjure a fire.

At 4:57 they arrive at the site where the inn was marked on the map. It has grown dark, dusk beginning to fade seamlessly into night, and the storm is growing worse.

They crest a hill, a hill that he had noted on the map, and for a moment Caleb feels his heart sink at the blank shifting swirls of snow in front of him. But then…

“Look!” Nott pipes, pointing a clawed finger. “I can see a light!” And sure enough, a faint, ever so faint flicker of light shines through the fast approaching darkness.

They hurry forward, stubbing toes on roots that are beginning to disappear under a layer of white on the ground, and stumble to a half-timbered structure with a wide stable yard in front flanked with barns. The building is quite tall—easily two-and-a-half stories high, with a broad gabled roof that extends to cover the top two stories, and it has porches running across the front of each story. A sign at the gate proclaims it to be the Hartshorn Inn; a deer skull with broad antlers hangs below the sign. The shutters are drawn on the windows, but cheerful candlelight shines through them to illuminate the stable yard. The air smells of woodsmoke and faintly of roasting meat, and Caleb sags a little against the gate at the scents. But first things first.

“Put on your mask now, Nott,” he murmurs, turning to her to fix her hood to cover her telltale ears and green skin. “I will do the talking.”

“Will we have enough money?” Nott asks, face rendered expressionless by the faintly smiling mask.

“I think so. If we do not eat or drink too much, _ja_?” Nott nods, and Caleb carefully extracts a very upset Frumpkin from his coat and conceals him in his pack instead.

With a final check of Nott’s mask and his (uncomfortably empty) coin purse, they walk into the welcoming warmth and glow of the inn.

\--------------------

At 5:10 exactly the inn is warm and humid from the bodies within it, bright from the candles burning in sconces attached to the heavy timber framing, and loud from the babble of voices in the common room on the first floor.

Caleb trudges to the bar with Nott in tow, dodging his way around tables and human servers who all seem to be from the same family. A man who is clearly related to the servers glances at him as he arrives at the heavy wood bar and then returns to polishing a pewter stein with a rag.

“How may I help you?” the man asks without enthusiasm. Caleb is not surprised: he knows how he looks, and he knows that the innkeeper doubts his ability to pay.

“We need lodging for the night,” Caleb replies, doing his best to sound friendly instead of half-frozen and desperate. “Do you have any rooms?”

“Nay.” The innkeeper is insistent in his polishing of the stein, and won’t meet Caleb’s eyes. “Nay, all the rooms are taken. Everyone got in early and got ‘em first. It’s looking to be a blizzard out there soon.”

“ _Ja_ ,” Caleb agrees, because what else can he do? “We just got in and it was snowing hard. Perhaps could we sleep in a dormitory then?”

“It’ll be 20 silver for the dormitory. Each.”

 _Gob smacked_ is a phrase Caleb once heard a halfling from some city in the south use, and he finds himself thinking it as he hears the words from the innkeeper. 20 silver to sleep in the common room? For that much he should have a private room with a clean bed stuffed with straw and a hot bath.

“ _Donnerwetter_! That is,” Caleb starts, and then starts again. “That is rather pricey, is it not?”

“There’s a lot of folks here because of the storm. If you don’t like it you can sleep outside,” the man grunts, and Caleb thinks about how easy it would be to set the building on fire, with its wood shingle roof and timber framing. But if he does that he will have to sleep out in the cold for certain, and will probably end up hanged in the bargain.

“I could get a private room with a hot bath for that in any town in Zemnia,” he says, because it’s true and also because _they can’t afford it, what will they do if they can’t afford to stay here?_

“Then go back to Zemnia. Are you saying you can’t pay?” the man scowls, and Caleb lets his face drop into a neutral expression.

“ _Nein, nein, natürlich nicht_ ,“ he says placatingly. “What did you say your name was, sir?”

“Gareth. Do you want to stay in the dormitory or not?”

“Well, Gareth, is there anything you have that is cheaper than that? Because we can afford it, of course we can, but we had hoped…we would prefer to spend our money on some good food instead of fancy lodgings.”

Gareth grunts again and then spits of the floor. _Charming_ , Caleb thinks. Nott has reached up and taken his hand and is looking at him with her worried eyes. He squeezes her hand gently and looks back up at the innkeeper.

“You can sleep on the floor here in the common room for six silver each. Five coppers more and you can use the hot springs to bathe. An extra silver and you get the baths and some bread with drippings from the roast. Take it or leave.”

Caleb takes it eagerly. It is still too much, still more than they can afford, but he is desperate to be inside instead of out in the storm, desperate to taste the drippings from the deer roasting in the massive fireplace, desperate to feel Nott’s hand relax in his own. He hands the innkeeper the money with thanks and marches over to a table by one of the outer walls and drops his bag.

He starts to let Frumpkin out when the innkeeper angrily shouts, “Hey! No animals!” So instead he picks his Familiar up and whispers, “You can sleep out in the barn, yes? Come get me if you run into trouble or if you can’t find any mice,” and puts Frumpkin outside the front door. The snow is swirling insistently outside, even heavier than when they arrived, and Caleb is fairly certain that if they had still been trying to find the inn by this time they would not have been able to see it. Frumpkin looks at him when he is placed in the now four or five inches of snow and lets out a mournful “ _Mrrawwwl_ ,” and scampers off to the barn on the right.

As he sits back with Nott he sees her look up, cloak still wrapped tight around her form.

“I’m sorry there were no rooms for us,” he says as he sits, and one of the servers comes by and places two steins of ale on the table.

Nott grabs the stein, shoves her mask up a little and eagerly drinks before eventually responding, “It’s okay. That fellow was a real ass.”

“Yes, he was at that,” Caleb agrees quietly. “But at least we get a hot bath in the deal. Are you warm enough? I am still cold.”

“I,” Nott says, and then readjusts her mask to once again cover her chin. “I think I’ll skip the bath. I’d be worried about being caught anyway.” And Caleb thinks that it might be the cold or the hunger or exhaustion from walking since dawn that morning. But whatever it is, the fact of the matter is he forgot that Nott doesn’t like the water and he forgot how vulnerable Nott is in a place like this. How vulnerable she will be without a private room in which she can take off her mask and stop pretending to be anything other than a goblin.

“Ach,” he murmurs, abruptly flooded with guilt. “ _Es tut mir leid. Ich bin ein Arschloch._ ”

Nott smiles at him, he can tell from the wrinkles that develop at the corners of her eyes, and she reaches out a hand to pat his. “No, you’re okay. We would’ve had to take the common room either way.”

“You will be okay?” He glances out between the slats of the shutters over the window. They cannot go back out in this weather: there is nowhere to go for miles, and the cold creeps in even through the walls. Nott nods and swipes his stein of ale. He lets her take several gulps before fishing it back out of her grasp, and not long after the food arrives.

It is nothing special, certainly, but the aroma from the crusty bread and the hot, greasy drippings from the roast make his stomach clench in hunger. He wolfs it down, almost beating Nott in the race to finish, and he uses his last piece of bread to soak up any remaining liquids. They sip another ale and watch the common room.

It is fairly full, Caleb will grant the innkeeper that much, and most of the guests seem to be fellow travelers on the road over the pass. Some wear hunting leathers that mark them out as rangers, while others wear chainmail or pieces of metal armor that suggest they are guards for merchants’ goods. A couple of them glance over and stare at him and Nott, but they make no motion to leave their raucous card game to come talk. One tall fellow at the bar has a long white beard and pointed ears; his green rough-spun robes mark him out as a druid of some sort, while a few gnomes cluster near the fire happily smoking their pipes.

It is 7:38 and Caleb is exhausted and slightly tipsy but he stands and hands his bag over to Nott to watch.

“I am going to go for my bath. If I am not back in an hour or so perhaps come find me.” He leans over to whisper in her ear. “And please come and get me if you get the Itch or if those fellows over there give you any trouble. We cannot get thrown out of here, not tonight.” Nott nods solemnly and settles into the corner and lets the shadows hide her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been approximately seven years since I last took German, so I heartily apologize for how I have undoubtedly butchered it throughout this story. If anyone who is competent in the language wants to correct me, PLEASE feel free.
> 
> I don't like using OCs, but for this particular work I found it necessary. For people who aren't into OCs, please rest assured that this is a VERY Caleb-centric fic, with very little about the OC (who is a bit of a straw man).


	2. Chapter II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering when things get really dark, this is it. PLEASE pay attention to the warnings and don't read this if that's not for you.

The bath house is down a set of heavy wood stairs that appear to have been carved out of a single enormous fir tree, and then further down a long stone corridor. As Caleb descends the air grows warmer and warmer until he is forced to pull off his scarf and gloves and finally his coat. The masonry of the corridor eventually transitions into hewn rock, and then, after a fork in the path with a sign pointing him towards the male’s side, it opens into a moderately-sized cavern that reeks faintly of rotten eggs. Sets of benches with hooks above line the walls, and a wide pool sunk into the floor steams in the thick air. A few males—a human or two, a half-orc, a couple of elves or half-elves—already in the pool look up at him. One or two stare at his rough appearance, but most pay him no mind, and he finds an empty bench and begins to strip off his clothes.

He knows how unkempt he looks most of the time, but it’s not usually as result of _liking_ being dirty. It’s just very hard to stay clean when one is sleeping in bushes and ditches and sometimes in convenient corners of other folks’ front yards, even more so when one can almost never afford a bath. _So this is something to be savored_ , he tells himself as he wanders over to the pool.

At first the pool is painfully hot. Caleb’s feet ache as he climbs in but he forces himself to keep sinking, slowly hissing out a breath. But quickly enough his body adjusts to the water and the heat becomes pleasurable as the aches in his joints begin to ease. He closes his eyes and lets himself float for a while, not thinking, not worrying.

Eventually he rouses himself and starts to scrub the dirt of the road off. As he does, he notices a couple of the individuals on the other side of the pool watching him before they quickly glance away at his gaze. Caleb feels his cheeks heat slightly as he washes the soap out of his hair. He is all too aware of the uses to which bath houses are often put, but he is not interested, and even if he was he has to get back to Nott soon. His train of thought leads him back to Nott and the danger that they both face here at the inn, trapped in the common room for the night with nowhere to flee to if Nott’s secret is discovered.

He is so involved in his thoughts that he startles when ripples hit his chest. He looks up to see a half-elf wading through the chest-deep water.

“Greetings, friend,” the half-elf says, long blond hair trailing in the water as he leans against the side of the pool next to Caleb. “How are you enjoying the water?”

“As much as I am enjoying my solitude,” Caleb replies, carefully keeping his eyes lowered to the arm he is scrubbing.

“Yes, it is very relaxing, isn’t it?” the half-elf continues, pointedly not taking the hint. Caleb grits his teeth in frustration. “You seem to have traveled some distance.”

“Yes.” Caleb starts to rewash his other arm because he does not want to touch any other part of his body with the half-elf so close.

“I’m Therin, by the way. My friends and I couldn’t help but notice you from across the pool.”

“I have to go,” Caleb blurts out, because he is very, very uncomfortable, very uncomfortable indeed at the thought of Therin’s friends also noticing him and at the close proximity of the half-elf. He realizes that the other bathers aside from Therin’s compatriots have left, and they are alone in the chamber. As he starts to lurch away to the pool’s steps the half-elf reaches out and grabs his wrist.

Caleb freezes.

He glances down at the hand on his wrist, glances up at the handsome face of the half-elf to whom it belongs. _Oh gods_ , Caleb thinks with dawning fear, _Please not this. Please not this again._

“It’s a blizzard out there,” Therin smiles with slightly too many teeth. “Where could you possibly have to go? There’s nothing to do at the inn and nowhere to go, so why not amuse yourself with me?”

“I—,” _am meeting a friend in the common room_ , Caleb almost says, before realizing that doing so will mean dragging Nott into this. And the one thing they cannot afford this night is drawing any attention to her. “I am not interested.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Therin says with slightly less of a smile now. “I saw how you looked at us when you got here.” The half-elf takes a step forward and Caleb unconsciously takes a step backward before his back hits the wall of the pool. He can see Therin’s friends watching from the wall nearby, some smiling, some not.

“I assure you, if I looked at you then it was entirely a mistake. I would like to leave now, please.” Caleb’s heart is fluttering in his chest. He might be able to take Therin and perhaps his friends if the components for his magic weren’t in his bag upstairs. But upstairs they are, safe and sound next to Nott, and a cantrip or two won’t do the trick here. His gut clenches with fear, and he wonders if he can get away. Caleb can’t help but hope that Nott will feel the Itch and come to find him, even though it’s only been 31 minutes since he left her, even though a guilty part of him knows that she’d step in to help and that doing so would put her in danger of being found out for a goblin. If she didn’t get hurt or killed.

“Why not stay with me and talk?” Therin says, grip tightening on his wrist. “I’m a nice fellow. Give me a chance.” With that, the half-elf steps forward again and reaches down to grab Caleb’s cock.

It’s a shock, the feeling of an unfamiliar hand on his prick, and he jerks back against the wall of the pool. Silent pleas to gods who will not answer fill his head. _Not this not this not this, please, anything but this._

“Not so bad now, huh?” Therin grins.

“Please stop,” Caleb gasps. “I do not…I am not interested. Thank you, but I would like to leave.”

“Like I said, why not give me a chance?” Therin breathes, gripping his shaft in a way that Caleb could see himself liking if not for, well, _everything about this_. As it is, Caleb stands frozen with the half-elf’s hand on his cock, too scared to move. He’s been here before and there is no point in begging. He knows that, he _knows_ , but everything in his body tells him to ask, to _plead_ to be released. “That’s right, we’ll just have some fun.”

Caleb finds himself pushed back against the wall of the pool as Therin steps forward and grinds against him, panting hot breaths against his ear. Therin smells of soap and clean air and Caleb bites back a whimper as he is boxed in by the other body. The half-elf is playing with his balls, cradling them as he rubs his erection against Caleb’s belly, and every instinct tells him to _flee now_ but Gods _he can’t seem to move._

Then abruptly Therin steps away and Caleb sags, sags at the merciful space between them. But before he can make a move to get away he finds his wrist grabbed again, finds himself pulled towards the stairs of the pool.

“What-?” he manages to blurt out before Therin shoves him onto his knees on the first broad step, climbs up after him, and grabs his hair.

Caleb’s head is jerked backwards so that he’s forced to look at Therin, who smiles at him. Caleb wants to recoil from that expression, attempts to turn his head, but is held immobile. He tries to reach for a cantrip, anything to break the hold on him, but his mind is entirely blank. He is frozen, he is made of ice, and the slightest movement by Therin could shatter him.

“I knew you were looking for cock the minute I set eyes on you,” Therin says huskily, and Caleb is maddeningly aware of the stiff prick bobbing just at the level of the water in front of his face. “Open up, slut.”

Everything in Caleb’s head seems to turn 90 degrees to the left from there. He finds his mouth forced open by a rough thumb thrust in it, followed by Therin’s cock. Caleb gags at the cock, tries to pull backwards, shoves against the hips looming in front of him. But his thrashing gets him a nose full of water and suddenly he can’t breathe at all. He panics and bites down before being ripped off the cock by rough hands.

He begins to cough uncontrollably, gasping for breath before Therin slaps him across the face.

“You think you can bite me?” Fingers thread through his hair again, but this time they’re forcing his head down instead of forward, pushing him underwater and he _can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe_.

He fights, of course he does, but it doesn’t seem to do any good. As the terror begins to take over, as lights begin to bloom behind his eyes, as he thrashes even harder, he is ripped back upward. He wheezes in an enormous breath before his head is forced back underwater. The second time there is no thought, no conscious reaction, just an instinctive fight for the surface, without success.

When he is finally pulled back up he hangs from the hand in his hair, gasping and shaking. Hands reach for him but barely register as they grasp him under the armpits and pull him up the steps. For the first time in as long as Caleb can remember he does not know what time it is.

He slowly becomes conscious that he’s now curled on the stone floor by the pool with Therin and several other individuals standing around looking down at him. Therin and the others are laughing and joking, and the half-elf is jerking himself. Caleb looks back towards the floor, too afraid to consider what is coming next. _What time is it?_ he wonders again, more desperately. If it is too late Nott will be coming for him, and he’s not sure he can stand for her to find him like this, not sure he could stand for her to be within reach of Therin and his cadre.

He tries to get to his hands and knees but a quick kick to his side from one of the legs surrounding him forces him back down. Therin kneels down, cock in hand, and grabs Caleb by the hair again. 

The half-elf half-smiles and half-snarls, “Let’s try this one more time, eh? Bite me again and I’ll kill you.” A gentle tap of one delicate finger to his already swollen cheek and Therin pulls him forward again.

Caleb doesn’t fight it.

He lets Therin fuck his mouth however he wants, because there is nothing else he can do. There is no magic in his head, no memory of the spells he has worked so very hard to memorize and has practiced every day. He is vaguely aware of the others still surrounding him, vaguely aware that they are laughing at him, calling him a _cocksucker_ and _slut_ and _whore_. Therin takes his pleasure for two minutes and 38 seconds, moving faster and faster until Caleb starts to gag, before pulling his cock out of Caleb’s mouth.

A splash of warmth suddenly erupts over Caleb’s face along with a burst of laughter from the group surrounding him. He clenches his eyes shut against Therin’s cum.

He supposes he should feel something right now, but instead he finds himself settling at a sort of numbness. Therin shoves him to the ground and spits on him. Then he and his friends collect their clothes and depart, still laughing and joking.

Once they are gone and he is alone, Caleb scrambles away from the pool until his back is against the stone wall. He pulls his knees up and reaches up to thread his hands in his hair, panting and biting back sobs, tears helplessly rolling down his cheeks and dripping from his stubble. _One breath in, one breath out_ , he counts out slowly, soothing himself with the rhythm until he feels ever so slightly in control.

After one hundred and fifty breaths he forces himself to get to his knees and then to stand. His legs shake under him, and he has to lean against the wall. But he wants out the of the bath chamber sooner rather than later. He has no sense of whether Therin or is friends might decide to come back, and if they do he is entirely alone and unprotected here.

_And_ , a small part of him adds, _How could I ever look Nott in the eye again if she found me like this?_

So he unwillingly forces himself to approach the pool, to dart a hand out from several feet away and to splash water on his face to get Therin’s cum off. He can already feel a bruise forming on his cheek. After several seconds with a towel he pulls his clothes onto his still slightly-wet body, and 17 minutes and 58 seconds after his rape he walks out of the room clutching his bruised ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this a little early because I like y'all a lot :)


	3. Chapter III.

20 minutes and 22 seconds after his rape Caleb walks into the common room.

“Was the bath okay, Caleb? You don’t look so good,” Nott says as he stumbles over to her. Therin and his friends are nowhere to be seen, probably off in a private room upstairs, and the common room is much quieter and emptier than earlier, with the fire banked and far fewer candles still burning. Caleb drops onto the bench next to her and allows himself to lean forward and cover his face with his hands. He knows he looks like shit, knows that he’s still on the verge of crying, and he can’t stand for Nott to see.

“What time is it?” he mutters. He feels Nott go still on the bench next to him at his words. She must catch sight of the mark on his face from between his fingers, and she stands up and grabs his wrist to pull his hand away for a better look.

Caleb can’t hide his flinch as she does.

“What happened?” Nott demands, instantly letting him go and giving him a little space: she knows that Caleb needs room when he has been injured. They’ve done this dance before, have done this dance for as long as they have known each other, since the first time they met in that jail cell.

But it has been some time since they have done the dance under these particular circumstances, although Nott does not know it.

Caleb reaches for the words to tell her, but finds his mouth empty. He gapes stupidly at her.

He cannot tell her, he _cannot_ , but he has to warn her about the danger they are in now because of what happened.

“I got into a—, a scuffle with some of the other bathers,” Caleb says, watching Nott’s eyes over the mask for any hint that his lie has been detected. But they only get wider as he says the words, trust and concern so palpable that he finds tears gathering in his eyes all over again. “I am fine, but we need to leave as soon as we can.”

Nott nods in understanding and glances out the gap in the shutter.

Caleb leans over her to look as well, and it is just as bad as he feared. The world outside is a swirl of white, the snow falling so thickly that he cannot even see the barns across the stable yard.

“Will we be safe for the night here?” Nott asks without looking away from the snow as it drifts by.

Caleb pulls himself away from the window and settles back on the bench, wishing Frumpkin was there.

“I think,” he starts before pausing and considering how likely it is that Therin and his pack will remain elsewhere until they can get away: considering whether they’d be warm enough if they slept in the barn instead. “I think we will be okay for the night here, as long as we get an early start. I suspect that the parties involved in the…in the…fight will not come down until later tomorrow morning.”

“Were they drunk, then?” Nott cocks her head, and Caleb looks down. He does not think Therin or his cronies had been drinking. _Aber wer weiß?_ What is more, what would it matter?

“No,” Caleb says, staring at his hands, which seem to be shaking. “They were just very rude and would not go away.” Nott reaches and grasps Caleb’s weak hands in her own rough, strong ones. He looks up and meets her eyes, soft and kind.

“I don’t know what happened, but it seems like it shook you,” Nott whispers from behind her mask. “I just want you to know that if you need to talk more about it, I’ll listen.”

Caleb can feel the tears finally spill out of his eyes, and he looks back down at his hands. He doesn’t deserve Nott: no one could possibly deserve Nott. Least of all a helpless idiot like him.

He nods mutely and squeezes her hands.

“I’ll keep watch and make sure no one bothers us. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”

Caleb settles onto the floor under the table with his back against the wall, their rough woolen blanket under him and his patched coat over him. He lies like that, with Nott rubbing a clawed hand up and down his back, for 36 minutes before exhaustion finally claims him.

\-----------

Caleb opens his eyes ten hours and 14 minutes after being raped.

Caleb’s first thought when he wakes is that he can’t wait to figure out what time it actually is.

His second thought is that Nott forgot to wake him. He instinctively jerks his eyes open, afraid to find her gone and perhaps to see Therin there in her stead, but he is greeted by the sight of Nott leaning against him, dagger in her hands, eyes closed. She is asleep, but it is only the quiet cat-nap that he knows she can wake from in an instant. Caleb lets his body relax a little. He is not entirely willing to admit to himself how comforting her proximity is, nor how touched he is by the guard she has clearly kept over him.

Then the memory of the need for an early start makes his eyes fly back open. _Scheiße! Wie spät ist es?_ Caleb pushes himself upwards and slams his head into the table above them.

“ _Verdammt!_ ” Caleb curses in earnest as a pewter tankard clatters to the floor.

Nott jumps up at the first movement he makes, clutching her dagger and with eyes wide open. She is not wild, not confused, but instead is fiercely, instantly focused.

“What is it, Caleb?” she asks, peering out from under the table and glancing over at him.

Caleb rubs at his scalp and gets to his knees. “It is nothing, Nott, all is well. I just woke and remembered that we need an early start.” He glances out across the still relatively quiet common room. A few people stare at him, but here is no sign of Therin or his cronies. Caleb lets go of the table leg he had been crushing in his grasp.

Stiffly, after a night spent on a wood floor, he crawls out from their hiding spot. He grabs his pack, shoves the blanket in, and strides over to the door. He knows that they should eat breakfast before leaving, but he is desperate to be gone from the Hartshorn Inn, desperate to get far, far away from Therin and all of his friends, desperate to try to forget the night before. Nott trots after him, stowing her dagger back behind her cloak. Without thinking he jerks back the bolt of the heavy wood door and pulls it open, and then freezes.

A wall of frigid air hits him and then a second later a small avalanche buries his ankles and shins.

There must be a foot of snow outside the door, with more still tumbling from a blank gray sky that gives him no sense of what time it may be.

“Close the door, you idiot!” Gareth yells at him from behind the counter, where he is polishing a different tankard than the night before. “It’s cold outside and you’re not going anywhere today, you can be sure of that.”

The floor seems to be shifting under him, the walls getting closer and closer and closer until he cannot breathe. It is ten hours and nineteen minutes since he was raped and Caleb does not know what time it actually is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this a little early since y’all have been leaving such kind comments :)


	4. Chapter IV.

They eat porridge with milk and plump raisins for breakfast, and Caleb spends the entire meal gripping his wood spoon so hard he can feel it groan in his fist.

He wants to scream.

He wants to yell and scream and rage at the storm still dumping snow and howling through the trees outside.

He wants to punch Gareth, even though he knows doing so won’t make it stop snowing.

Instead, he grabs Nott after breakfast ( _ten hours and fifty seven minutes since he was raped_ , comes the unbidden thought) and stalks down one of the inn’s corridors to the barn he saw Frumpkin run towards.

The barn is a massive, two story timber-framed structure, with a loft full of hay above and stalls for horses below. The heady smell of alfalfa and horse tickle Caleb’s nose and although it is certainly colder than the inn the barn is still bearable.

“Frumpkin? Are you there, Frumpkin?” he calls, looking around for his Familiar. “ _Komm her, mein Liebling._ ”

“Mmmrowp!” Frumpkin responds as he emerges from behind a stall door, fluffed out against the cold. “Mmmrrr.”

Caleb picks his Familiar up and cradles him against his chest, petting him and whispering endearments into his fur. Frumpkin takes the attention without complaint, nuzzling him and purring until Caleb feels a little steadier. Eventually he sets Frumpkin down before sitting down on an upturned bucket outside of one of the horse stalls. Frumpkin immediately jumps back into his lap, and he pets the Familiar as Nott grabs another bucket and joins him.

“Well, we are in a bit of a pickle,” Caleb says after Nott is sitting comfortably. “I would like to have left today.”

“Yeah,” Nott agrees cautiously, looking up at him and gently rubbing Frumpkin’s cheek. “What’s the plan?” She pauses and pulls her mask off with an unmistakable look of relief. 

It might be less occupied than the inn but it still isn’t really safe out here in the barn, but he knows that she can’t wear her mask forever. He looks down the aisle to make sure no one is coming, but they appear to be alone.

Caleb pauses, and then pauses again.

“I do not know,” he finally admits. “I’m not sure what we should do. I…we really need to get away soon.”

“Will they come after you if you’re in the common room?” Nott asks with some surprise. 

“I don’t know,” Caleb says again, shrugging against his uncertainty and his fear. “It would be best not to find out, yes?”

“Well, can we stay in the barn instead? It looks like we won’t be able to leave today for sure, but tomorrow?” Nott doesn’t meet his eyes as she says it, and he knows she is concerned for him, feels guilty for simply stating the facts of their situation. “I can get us food, you don’t have to go back into the inn.”

“What about you?” Caleb has to ask, because he knows Nott too well to simply accept her offer, no matter how kind. “Have you got the Itch?”

“Oh, you know…” she trails off lamely. “I’m doing alright. It’s not too bad at the moment.”

“Nott.”

“It isn’t!” she says defensively. “It’s under control. And I can, I can keep it under control if you can’t go back in the inn.”

Caleb sighs, a deep and heavy sound misting out into the cold air of the barn. They could hide out here for the day, could try to keep out of sight, try to remain unnoticed by Therin or his friends or anyone else who might wish them ill.

 _It will work_ , Caleb tells himself, trying to ease the uncertainty pulling at him. _I will go and pay the innkeeper a few coppers and we will stay out here and then leave tomorrow once it stops snowing._

“ _Ja_ ,” he says, trying to draw confidence from hearing it said aloud, legs protesting as he stands. “We will stay out here, I think, and there will be no reason for anyone to bother us. Stay here and I will take care of it.”

He sends Frumpkin down the corridor to scout out the common room, slipping comfortably into Frumpkin's mind and peering out through his eyes. Frumpkin makes it to the bar, helps Caleb get a glimpse of the common room. But before he can get a good look he hears Gareth give an angry shout, and he sends Frumpkin skittering back to the barn.

With a sigh he gingerly casts Disguise Self instead, deciding on the form of a taller, gangling human peasant with a long white beard and a rough tunic. He desperately hopes that it will suffice as a disguise and that Gareth won’t question it. He does not let himself think about the energy he is expending with the spell, or worry about whether he will wish he had conserved it if he runs into Therin.

Caleb is mildly surprised by the tightness in his chest as he walks back down the corridor to the common room. He finds himself squinting down the hall, looking for any sign of movement, of life, of pointed ears or blond hair. As he reaches the end of the passage, he pauses in the shadows to observe the common room.

True to what he saw through Frumpkin's eyes, it has filled up since he and Nott ate breakfast, bustling with individuals eating, chatting, and playing cards. He sees no golden blond heads amongst the crowd, no familiar faces to cause him concern.

With a deep breath he steps into the room and hurries to the bar.

Gareth catches sight of him and frowns. _So that is how this will be_ , Caleb thinks, and sighs internally.

“Hello,” he says as he steps up the counter, reaching for the painfully loose purse at his waist. “I want to talk to you about accommodations for the night.”

Gareth’s eyes narrow in his fleshy face, and he reaches under the counter for what Caleb assumes is probably a weapon. _Verdammt_ , Caleb thinks, _Gareth is not as much of a fool as I had thought._

“I don’t remember you,” Gareth says warily. “You weren’t here last night, and you certainly didn’t arrive today neither. Who are you? You wearing an illusion?”

Caleb sighs and lets the illusion drop, reassuring himself that he saw no sign of Therin so there is no point in continuing the deception.

As it drops, Gareth’s frown intensifies, suspicion clouding his face as he says, “We don’t take kindly to that sort of foolery here. We only welcome trustworthy folks.”

“I apologize for confusing you. But I do want to talk to you about accommodations for another night, since we are certainly not going anywhere this day.”

“Aye?” Gareth asks, frown deepening. “Same rates apply. I have to eat, too.”

Gareth looks as if he already eats rather more than he should, Caleb thinks, but he does not let the thought show on his face.

“Of course. But my traveling companion and I were hoping we might sleep in the barn instead tonight.”

“You said you had plenty of coin.” Gareth’s eyes narrow, and Caleb breathes his tension and frustration out of his nose.

“We are of course prepared to pay. We merely found the floor rather hard for our tastes.”

“In that case it’ll be three silver for the both of you to stay in the barn. No food or baths included.” If the thought of not being able to visit the baths again is intended as an incentive for Caleb to pay more, he thinks, then Gareth will be sadly disappointed.

“Yes, that sounds good,” Caleb says before carefully counting out the coins; Gareth keeps too close an eye on the counting to give him a chance to cheat him. They have just five silver left after this; they must be circumspect in their eating.

The sudden sense of a presence at his back makes Caleb freeze as he hands the coins over. Slowly ( _so very slowly_ ) he turns to glance over his shoulder.

Therin is there, leaning casually against the bar, his handsome nightmare of a face cracked in a sly grin. Caleb feels his heart stutter against his ribs.

“So here you are,” Therin purrs, and the hair on the back of Caleb’s neck stands up at the sound. The half-elf is resplendent in expensive hunter’s garb, worked green and brown leathers chased with touches of shining silver, hair in neat braids. “I was wondering if you had somehow managed to sneak out this morning.”

Caleb finds himself bereft of any reply. _Was kann er zu dem Monster sagen?_

 _Eleven hours and twenty-eight minutes_ , a voice he can’t shut out whispers in the back of his head.

Therin smiles over at Gareth, and Caleb realizes what is about to occur a second before it happens: too slow to stop it, but fast enough to throw one beseeching glance at the innkeeper.

“So, Master Gareth, where has my friend stashed himself?”

 _No_ , Caleb thinks, stomach dropping as Gareth glances over at the half-elf, an unimpressed expression pasted on his face. _No, please, I have nowhere else to hide._

“You’ll have to ask him yourself,” Gareth grunts after looking from Caleb’s frozen expression to Therin’s subtly lecherous smirk. “T’ain’t any affair of mine where patrons choose to park themselves.” Gareth wanders off towards the kitchens, and Caleb allows himself to let his breath out as quietly as he can. He thanks all the gods whose names he can remember for this small piece of luck in amongst the misfortune of the past few days.

“Ah, well, can’t blame a fellow for trying,” Therin smiles, winking at Caleb as though the rape is an in-joke just between them. Caleb almost supposes it is.

“I do not desire company,” Caleb says as he finally finds his voice, now that some slight measure of his fear has diminished. “Particularly not yours.”

Therin has the good grace not to pretend to be surprised or offended at Caleb’s words. _At least he doesn’t pretend it isn’t anything but a game for him_ , Caleb thinks before he leans in, forcing him back against the bar. Caleb’s vision whites out briefly as panic fills his brain with the sensation of being boxed in. _Just like last night._

“Then why don’t you do something about it?” The question is spoken with a vicious, vindictive humor to it, daring Caleb to say something, to tell Gareth or the other patrons, to scream.

 _Eleven hours and twenty-nine minutes_ , the voice whispers.

“That’s alright,” Therin murmurs through the blank haze of terror filling Caleb’s head. Caleb is vaguely aware that Therin is close against him, mouth inches away from one of his ears. “I can always just Hunter’s Mark you.” Caleb’s heart pounds against his chest as the threat sinks in, as he hears the arcane power imbuing Therin's words.

A finger runs along his jawline.

"I’ll be here watching you from a distance, handsome." And then the presence in front of him is gone.

Once he is done shaking ( _shaking, shaking, shaking_ ) against the bar, Caleb looks over towards where Therin has settled down with his cronies at a table near the fire. As he does, he catches Therin’s eye.

He quickly looks away, attracts the attention of a barmaid and orders a pint of the inn’s cheapest ale and throws down two coppers. With uncoordinated feet he stumbles over to a corner where he is slightly shielded from the half-elf’s unwelcome gaze and plants himself.

He is Marked, and for the next hour it will be too dangerous to return to Nott. He hopes that she will be clever enough not to come looking for him, but all he can do right now is fight down the nausea and fear bubbling in his chest and sip his ale.


	5. Chapter V.

Nott comes to the common room looking for him after another fifteen minutes, creeping through the shadows to the edge of the corridor. Caleb doesn’t notice her initially, too caught up in his own troubles, too concerned with trying to press himself against the wall out of Therin’s sight.

**Caleb! Are you okay? You can reply to this message.**

He flinches when he hears the whisper of the Message cantrip in his head, before looking over toward the hallway and seeing a familiar set of eyes over a porcelain mask.

**I. I am not okay, no.**

Nott’s eyes grow wider over the mask, and Caleb wants to get up and run over to her, to embrace her and let the terror filling his body drain away, to shake and shake and shake until he feels calm and safe again. But he cannot, he _cannot_ draw Therin’s attention to Nott, cannot get her caught up in this.

**Can I come over to you? Is it safe? You can reply to this message.**

He can see her clawed fingers curl around the heavy wood post of the hallway entrance, and he quickly replies, **No, it is not safe. The person from last night is here and he is watching me.**

Almost before he completes the thought, another Message pops into his head.

 **Which one is he? I can take care of him right now. You can reply to this message.** Nott’s eyes narrow, and even with the gently smiling mask she looks ready to murder the first person Caleb points at.

**No, he has many friends here. You will be noticed.**

There is a slight pause.

**What happened, Caleb? You can reply to this message.**

**He has Hunter’s Marked me. I cannot leave for another forty-one minutes or he will know where I go.** Caleb tries not to let the dizzying hysteria filling his head bleed into the spell.

 **Oh. Oh dear. I’ll wait here until you can leave. Is there anything I can do? You can reply to this message.** The genuine concern behind Nott’s words that the spell conveys makes Caleb's chest ache.

 **When the time is up, let me know if the half-elf with the blond hair or any of the ones around him are watching me, and whether it’s safe for me to leave.** As he thinks it, Caleb feels sick at the thought of what it would have been like trying to sneak off without Nott’s help.

**Can do. Just give me the cue.**

They wait.

Caleb nurses his ale, forcing himself not to look over at Therin and his group, trying not to vibrate apart at the seams from tension and fear.

The seconds tick by, and finally, _finally_ the hour has passed. He looks over at Nott’s slender silhouette in the hallway, catches her eye.

**Is it time? You can reply to this message.**

**Yes. Is it safe for me to leave?** Caleb asks, heart in his throat, aching to run.

**No, blondie is looking your way. Give it a moment.**

_I have already given it far too many moments_ , Caleb longs to snap, but it is not Nott’s fault that he’s in this situation. No, he only has himself to blame for this mess.

 **He’s going to look away in a second. There’s a group about to walk past you. Walk behind them. Don’t reply. Go…now!** , Nott instructs, and Caleb trusts her implicitly. He is good at the magic, and she is good at the sneaking, and that is how they work. So when the group of merchants’ guards walk past he slips in behind them, dodging behind a heavy timber post and then into the shadows of the hallway where Nott waits.

“Did he see?” he gasps out, hands shaking as he leans into the shadows against the wall.

“No, blondie is about to look over, and…nope, he’s confused,” Nott pipes happily, but before she can continue Caleb has grabbed her and is dragging her down the hall, away from the common room and the terror lurking there.

\-----------------------

Caleb keeps it together until he is sitting safely in the hayloft, surrounded by piles of hay and nestled against a heavy wood beam close under the roof, Frumpkin settled next to him.

But twelve hours and thirty-two minutes after his rape he lets himself draw his knees up and lace his fingers through his shaggy hair and sob. Nott sits next to him, not touching him and not talking, just being present.

Eventually he pulls himself together and shakily looks up at the goblin next to him.

“I’m sorry,” he intones softly. “I have made a mess of everything and I’m sorry.”

“No, Caleb,” Nott replies, pulling off the mask. “No, no, no. I know this isn’t your fault. I just wish you’d tell me what happened. Getting in a fight has never…it’s never seemed like this before.”

Caleb looks away. He can’t meet her eyes. He is still too ashamed of what happened, of his inability to defend himself, of not even being able to remember a single simple cantrip in the moment that it mattered. He can’t stop playing the series of events over and over in his head, pinpointing where he made mistakes, where he could have made things turn out differently, and it’s _killing_ him. He’s walked this path before and yet somehow the day after never gets any easier.

They sit in silence for what is only one minute and four seconds but feels like an hour.

“We cannot go back to the common room,” he says eventually, not because Nott needs it spelled out but simply to fill in the silence. “We need to hide here.”

“Yeah,” Nott says amicably, looking around at the loft and the ladder against the wall leading up to it, the open side overlooking the stalls below. “This is actually a pretty good place to hide, don’t you think?”

“ _Ja_ ,” Caleb agrees, thinking about what spell he will use if he sees Therin come through the door to the barn floor below. _I will not be caught out next time, I **won’t**._

“You should rest. I’ll watch the door to see if anyone comes through,” Nott orders gently.

Caleb complies, pulling out his spell book and letting the words run through his head. Trying to force the magic into his mind is harder than trying to catch a greased-up pig like they used to do at festivals in his youth. Every few seconds he catches himself looking at the door to the barn and forces his gaze back to the pages. Finally, after he’s prepared three spells, he admits defeat and pulls out his waterskin and some stale bread from his pack and shares it with Nott as they both lie in the hay and watch the door.

They stay like that for six hours and forty-three minutes , keeping watch, catnapping, listening to the howling of the wind, petting Frumpkin, drinking (in Nott’s case), and (in Caleb’s case) trying unsuccessfully to study his spells.

Eventually the length of time forces Caleb to get up and move around. As he stands hunger hits him like a punch to the gut, even through the tension twisting his stomach into knots.

“Nott, do you have any food?” Caleb whispers in the cold, quiet air of the barn. The timbers creak gently from the wind of the storm outside, and he can hear the susurrus of the snow falling on the shingles directly above his head. The animals below breathe and snort, chew on hay and shit on the stable floor.

“No, I didn’t save any from breakfast,” Nott replies, glancing away from the door to the barn quickly to peer at him. She pulls her flask out from…somewhere…and takes a pull and then says, “Let me go get food. You can wait here.”

Caleb sits down next to her and puts his hand on her shoulder. She looks back at him.

“You have to be careful.”

“I am! I will be!” she exclaims defensively before he cuts her off.

“Nott, you _have to be careful_. Please, _bitte_ , these individuals…you have not met them. Do not go near them, especially the blond one.”

Nott grows quiet at his words and a solemn look passes over her usually cheerful face.

“I'll be careful, Caleb,” she says gravely. “You don’t need to worry.”

Caleb watches her climb down the ladder and go out the barn door. Once she is through he grabs his bag and follows suit, pausing by the door to the hallway from the barn.

“Frumpkin, _mein Liebling_ , come here,” he calls, and Frumpkin jumps down from the loft and runs over, fur puffed out against the cold air and tail held high. “I need you to be my eyes, _Knuddeleulenbär_. Just follow Nott, make sure she is safe. _Kannst du das machen_?”

“Mrrrowp!” Frumpkin replies, rubbing his face against Caleb’s shin before slipping through the crack in the door.

Caleb closes his eyes and takes a slow breath in. As he lets it out he throws his consciousness towards Frumpkin and opens his eyes.

The hallway is poorly lit, but it makes no difference to Frumpkin’s keen gaze. Heavy timbers line the walls, and Caleb watches as Frumpkin slinks through the shadows towards the noisy common room. He does not see Nott in front of him, but he does not allow himself to worry yet. She is stealthy when she wishes to be, and not being able to observe her is a good thing since it means she is being careful.

Eventually Frumpkin arrives at the end of the hallway, and Caleb looks into the crowded room. Perhaps thirty or forty people fill it, taking up almost all of the available seats, and all seem to be in a jovial mood. Happy chatter fills the air, making Frumpkin’s sensitive ears twitch, and the rich scents of roasting meat make Caleb’s stomach ache even back in the barn. He casts his gaze back and forth but does not see Nott until a patron steps away from the bar.

She is there, talking to Gareth, perched on her tiptoes to get her eyes above the level of the counter. He watches her negotiate, pull out her purse and take out a couple of coins and hand them to the innkeeper. When Gareth turns away he also watches her reach out and grab a wooden tankard off the counter and slip it into her bag. Caleb’s gut churns. 

_You said you would be careful_ , he wants to shout at her, _You said you could manage your Itch!_ But Gareth doesn’t notice the missing vessel when he turns back, and Caleb knows it would be foolish to run to the common room and confront Nott when she is almost away safely.

Gareth hands Nott a bottle of something, presumably ale, and a couple of wrapped packages of food, which Nott stashes in her bag along with the tankard.

Caleb is about to call Frumpkin back and to drop his vision when Nott leaves the bar. But instead of heading directly for the hallway, he sees her head out into the common room.

 _Scheiße!_ Caleb thinks sharply enough that Frumpkin jumps slightly. _Please don’t, Nott, not tonight of all nights._

Frumpkin sneaks a little further into the room and Caleb watches from under chairs and tables as Nott wanders the common room, snatching food from plates and sometimes the plates themselves, relieving patrons of their coin. He tries to get Frumpkin over to her, but she is across the open central area of the room, and he can’t seem to catch up to her while still remaining hidden.

After eleven minutes of thievery she starts to head back towards the hallway, and the tension in Caleb’s chest begins to ease. But then she pauses. She seems to be looking at something or someone that he can’t see from where Frumpkin is hiding, staring intently, ears quivering slightly, before following behind a barmaid away from the cat. Frumpkin weasels his way through the chairs and under a bench for a better view, and looks over at Nott.

The sight makes Caleb’s heart miss a beat.

Nott is close behind an all-too-familiar golden-haired half-elf who is seated at a table with several large rangers and fighters, working her way next to him. She deftly reaches out for his purse, small palm-dagger ready to slit the threads.

 _ **NO!**_ Caleb screams in Frumpkin’s head, not thinking about anything except the need to stop Nott from doing what she is about to do, and his Familiar screams along with him, a thin, wailing, “ **MrrRROWW!** ”

The common room abruptly falls silent, and faces all around turn towards where Frumpkin is cowering under the bench.

Therin’s golden head turns as well, and as he turns Caleb sees Nott fumble and jerk on Therin’s purse strings.

“What in the Nine Hells…?” Therin exclaims, and whips around to where Nott is standing, her hand still extended towards his coin purse. Therin reacts almost instantly, reaching out and grabbing her and yelling, “Hey! What are you doing? Thief! _Thief!_ ”

 _Get back to the barn **NOW**_ , Caleb orders Frumpkin, and he throws his consciousness back into his own body.

It takes just a second for his sight and brain to readjust to his human eyes and body, and as soon as he can he kicks the door to the hallway open and sprints towards the common room.

\-----------------------

By the time he skids into the common room, nineteen hours and thirty-six minutes after being raped, a crowd has gathered around the table where Therin was seated. Angry voices are raised, and Caleb can see Therin gesturing furiously.

He wildly scans the group for Nott, and he finds her held by her arms about a foot above the floor by a massive half-orc that he remembers from the baths the night before. Her mask dangles from her neck, and no amount of shadow or bandages can conceal her sharp goblin teeth or her slitted goblin pupils or her green goblin skin. Caleb’s stomach seems to have been left somewhere back in the barn, fear and panic warring in his hollow chest. But he charges over without letting himself think about it. He will not let Nott come to harm: _he will not let them hurt her_.

“Hey, _hey_ ,” he says, and then, almost shouting, “ _Pardon me!_ ”

Several in the crowd look over, but it does not fall silent until Therin pauses in his angry monologue and looks up, eyes widening in surprise and then (unmistakably) in interest.

“You,” Therin says simply, relaxing his stance and crossing his arms; a shiver runs down Caleb’s spine. He does not look as though his anger is gone, but merely like it is in abeyance, put off until Caleb has said whatever it is he plans to say. Nott is staring at him, but Caleb can’t bear to look at her. He can’t stand the judgement that he is confident he will find in her gaze for interrupting her thievery and getting her caught.

“Yes,” Caleb replies, not flinching from the appraising look he gets from Therin, or from the stares from the crowd. Gareth is glaring at him from Therin’s side, and Caleb does not think about the storm outside that they will almost certainly have to return to if he can somehow talk them out of this. “Please put down my companion.”

“It was trying to steal my purse,” Therin says in a voice of silk and honey and blood. “We found a number of stolen objects in its satchel as well. It is a thief.”

“Yes,” Caleb agrees, because doing otherwise will profit him and Nott nothing. “Yes, I am aware that she has an illness.”

“An illness?” Gareth scoffs, stepping forward, a meat cleaver in his thick hand. “If thievery is an illness, it’s easy enough to cure. And this one—” a sweeping gesture with his cleaver towards Caleb as he looks around to the circle of guests and servers “—this one came in here wearing an illusion earlier. I’ll bet they’re both thieves. I’ll bet that he put it up to it.”

Nott struggles a little in the grasp of the half-orc and shouts in her piping voice, “No! Caleb had nothing to do with it!”

“Nott,” Caleb says, surprised at the evenness of his voice. “Please do not speak.” He forces himself to look away from Nott, from the one friend he has, to make eye contact with the people surrounding them and then with Therin. To make sure that they are looking at him and not at her. "Gareth is right. This is my doing. I put her up to it. Do not be angry with her, be angry with me."

 _I will keep her safe_ , Caleb tells himself firmly to ward off the fear eating at his stomach. _I will not let them hurt her._

“I knew it!” Gareth cries angrily, stepping forward and getting into Caleb’s space. But even through his fear Caleb refuses to take a step back, merely looks down his nose at the red face of the innkeeper an inch or two below his own. “I knew it! I knew you and that--that-- _goblin_ were crooks, were _trash_ the minute you stepped into this inn!"

The crowd of patrons murmurs heatedly at that. Some of the more capable-looking guards and rangers instinctively reach for their weapons, and Caleb starts to summon the magic that will conjure fire, will perhaps result in the death or deaths of innocent people staying in the inn, people only drawn into this through his own stupidity. He feels sick with himself, nauseous at the power flickering through his veins.

“Gareth,” Therin says, putting out a hand and pushing the innkeeper backwards, stepping into the center of the circle. “Everyone. Obviously we’re all upset at what’s happened. But perhaps we should calm down a bit.” With his words the tension in the group eases. Caleb parts his hands but does not relax. “So how exactly is this…goblin…the victim of an illness that leads it to steal from decent folk?”

 _‘Decent folk’ is stretching it a bit far in your case_ , Caleb thinks, but he replies, “She cannot help herself. She took little of real value. It is, how do you say? _Ein Zwang._ A compulsion. I am the one to blame for her actions.”

“You consort with goblins?” Therin asks, cocking an eyebrow in what Caleb is fairly certain is genuine curiosity.

“Not _goblins_. Just Nott. She is not like the others.”

Therin frowns. “Given its attempt to rob me, I’d say it’s not too far off from the others.”

“ _Ja_ , but as I said, she did not take much of value, and she does not wish to hurt anyone. Is that not right, Nott?”

“Yes,” Nott mutters, abruptly the one unwilling to meet his eyes.

Therin and the crowd appear to mull his words over. Caleb can do nothing but stand there, facing them all, tense and fearful and with his spells ready in his head.

“Throw them out,” Gareth says in a flat voice, breaking the silence. “I want them out of my inn. Let the storm sort them out.” At his words others in the group start to nod and murmur in agreement, and Caleb is almost grateful. He knows it was too much to hope that they would be allowed to stay, and this at least involves no direct violence. He thinks (he _hopes_ ) they can survive the storm.

“No,” Therin replies, unyielding as the granite of the mountain peaks that surround them.

Caleb’s heart—

Caleb’s heart—

Caleb’s heart stutters in his chest.

“Lock the goblin in the linen closet. Vorandir will keep guard.” Therin gestures at the half-orc currently holding Nott immobile and then turns to Caleb with a salacious look that he’s not sure anyone else sees but that he cannot miss. “And grab the human. I think the district justicar will want to know more. I want to question him.”

The half-orc begins to lift a struggling Nott, deftly drawing her away as she attempts to bite his hand.

Caleb is frozen. He feels a hand reach out for his shoulder, to grab him. To grab him and separate him from Nott and to bring him to Therin. _To be raped again,_ a voice whispers in his head. _And probably again after that, and then hanged for a thief._

“NO!” Caleb cries, swatting the grasping hand away. “ _NO!_ ” And before he can second-guess himself he raises his hand and shouts out the cantrip that has been crawling in the back of his mouth this entire time.

A bolt of orange fire erupts from his hand, burning across the room and throwing wild shadows against the walls of the common room. It hits the half-orc solidly in the shoulder and with a cry he drops Nott. 

Without pausing Caleb turns and chants out a second spell and gestures at Therin. A beam of blue energy crackles from his palm and slams into the half-elf’s gut. Therin does not look surprised so much as he looks enraged, and for some reason the dissonance in the expression makes Caleb’s gut clench. But he ignores it and concentrates on his hatred instead, channeling all of the fear and helplessness he felt the night before (feels still) into the spell. He knows their odds are not good, but they must get away or those same odds will get even worse.

Through the haze of concentration required by the spell he is distantly aware that Nott has scampered over to stand behind him, watching his back. But before he can start to move towards the door, before he can try to communicate with Nott, before he can do _anything_ , Therin braces himself against the energy running over his skin and looks Caleb in the eye.

The look in his eyes catches Caleb behind his solar plexus, almost breaks his concentration by itself alone. It is a heavy look, full of promise and threat and dreadful humor.

Therin whips a dagger at Caleb and simultaneously barks out a spell, never breaking eye contact. Caleb feels the impact of the steel in his upper arm. Abruptly his concentration is lost and the spell ends, energy crackling away until only the faint scent of ozone remains in the air of the room. Along with the pain, thorny vines erupt from the hilt of the dagger buried in his arm. He barely has time to cry out before they ensnare him around his wrists and legs and pull him to his knees, barbs piercing his skin in a hundred different places. He struggles, of course he struggles, but the gods saw fit to gift him with intelligence, not strength, and it is to no avail.

Nott is instantly on him hacking at the vines, but before she can cut through even a handful the half-orc (looking worse for wear after the fire bolt, Caleb notes with a vague sense of satisfaction) grabs her. She goes to stab him but he is too quick and knocks the dagger out of her fist, and it ends with her dangling from both wrists in his grasp.

The steady _tap, tap, tap_ tread of boots brings his attention back to the front. He looks up to see Therin’s muscular form looming over him.

The view from his knees is too reminiscent of the bath house the night before, of other memories that Caleb has tried so very hard to forget. His breath catches in his throat as terror starts to close his airway.

“Lock it in the linen closet,” Therin orders, rubbing at the scorch mark on his hunting leathers. “I’ll attend to the goblin soon enough.”

Caleb struggles against the vines winding around his body, but the thorns only pierce deeper into his wrists and he stops when it is clear that he is making no headway. Therin draws out a leather strap from a pouch at his waist and with a quickly snapped word the vines wither away.

Strong hands grab his arms before Caleb can move to cast another spell. He finds his hands pulled behind his back and secured with the leather strap. Once he is incapacitated, Therin pulls him up to standing and leans in.

Caleb’s mind starts to white out with fear.

“You’re going to come with me,” Therin whispers in his ear, close (too close, too close) to his side. “And you’re going to do it without trying to cast any spells. And if you don’t, I’ll have Vorandir execute your friend and no one will ask why.” The half-elf’s lips crook into a smile against Caleb’s cheek and he wants to scream. _Nineteen hours and forty-one minutes._ “I’m glad you came back to me. It was going to be a boring night without you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect I don't think Nott would've had the Message cantrip at this point, but I'm too lazy to try to rework this. Please forgive!


	6. Chapter VI.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added another tag for non-consensual drug use (well, potion use) because I missed it earlier. It won't come up in this chapter, but it will be coming up in Chapters 8 and 9 (both of which can be totally skipped without messing up the end of the story if that isn't your thing). Wanted to give everyone lots of warning about that--apologies for missing it earlier! I will be posting another warning at the start of each of those chapters as well.

The first thing Caleb notices about the room is that it smells like Therin, rich and spicy and with a hint of leather.

The second thing he notices is that it is likely the nicest room in the inn, right beneath the peak of the roof, with a door leading out to the balcony on the third floor and wood paneling on the walls. A heavy four-poster bed with hanging curtains sits in one corner and a wood table surrounded by several chairs in another. A bearskin rug lies in front of a banked fire in the broad stone fire place. Beams extend across the ceiling beneath the peak of the roof. The impression Caleb cannot help but gather is one of comfortable wealth.

Caleb is forced into one of the chairs by two of Therin’s cronies, wrists bound to the armrests to preclude further spellcasting. They leave him alone with the ranger. His chest is an aching hollow beneath his threadbare shirt and patched coat, but he does his best to master his emotions even in close proximity to the half-elf. _Nineteen hours and forty-six minutes,_ he thinks helplessly. _But how long until the next time?_

Therin wanders past and drops his cloak on the back of the other chair before pouring himself a glass of wine from a pitcher on a table by the fireplace. It takes him a full six seconds to pour the wine: Caleb counts each second fiercely, possessively. Therin takes a deep gulp followed by a heavy sigh as he wipes his mouth with his forearm. The wine stains his full lips a dark red.

 _It is no wonder the people in the inn were so happy to trust him,_ Caleb thinks abstractly, trying to distance himself from the leather straps holding his wrists immobile and the pain of the open wound in his arm that is still slowly leaking blood. _It is hard to see such power and beauty and not to want to trust it._

“You don’t strike me as a sorcerer,” Therin says contemplatively. “You don’t have the look—you know, the—” an absent-minded wave of the hand followed by a sip of wine, “—the _feral_ look that they usually have.” Another sip of wine. “And I’m not sure which god would want you. So I’m going to guess wizard. That sound about right?”

Caleb knows full-well that he’s not leaving this room unscathed regardless of what he does, so what harm is it to play along if it makes what is to come hurt a little less?

“ _Ja_ ,” he says, straightening against his bindings. “ _Ja_ , that is correct. I am a wizard.”

“What is your name?” Caleb is taken aback by the question before realizing that at no point had Therin ever asked him. _He did not care, of course he did not care_ , Caleb chides himself as the realization hits. _I was just a convenient hole for him to use._

“Phillip.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Klaus.”

Therin’s hand goes to his dagger. “ _Don’t. Lie._ ”

Caleb does not even bother to react. “Caleb Widogast.”

Therin smiles briefly.

“Caleb Widogast. I like that name. It has some meat to it. Zemnian, right?”

“ _Ja_.”

His dry response gets a chuckle, and then Therin pulls two potions from a bag resting at the base of the bed.

“You are injured. As am I, Caleb Widogast. That was some quick spellwork.”

Caleb knows he’s supposed to reply, that he’s supposed to have some snappy comeback. But he is exhausted and terrified and his arm aches. So instead he stays quiet.

Therin looks at him for a moment, waiting for his reply, but when it become clear that no response will be forthcoming he pops the cork from one of the potions and swigs it down. The burns Caleb can see under his collar immediately fade away until his skin is once again whole and unblemished.

Once the healing is complete the ranger pulls out the other chair at the table and sits down facing Caleb and pours himself another glass of wine. This time it only takes him four seconds to pour it.

“I’ll give you the other potion in a moment,” he says pleasantly, sipping from his chalice. “But first I want to talk.”

Caleb nods and ignores the way his skin crawls at the proximity of the half-elf. The longer Therin talks the longer it is before he does _something else_. At this point Caleb isn’t sure exactly what the _something else_ might be, but gods, he is certain it won’t be anything good. Not the way his luck has been going for the last two days. Not the way his luck has been going for his entire life.

“You were telling the truth back in the common room, weren’t you? With the goblin, I mean.”

“Yes. Nott is not evil, she just has an illness.”

Therin huffs a laugh and takes another sip of his wine.

“Do you fuck it? The goblin?”

The way he asks it is so matter-of-fact that it takes Caleb a moment to process his words. When it finally filters through the haze of pain and shock he can’t help but sit up straighter in the chair.

“ _ **What?**_ ” The confusion in his voice wars with the venom. “Of course I do not!”

“Interesting. You certainly seem rather…outre…and I was curious.”

Therin stands from the chair and wanders over to the mantel, slowly sipping his wine and leisurely unbuckling his leather armor and placing it in a pile by the bed.

Caleb counts the seconds, reminds himself that he should be grateful for each one that doesn’t involve _touch_.

He knows the touch is coming, but his hands are bound and Nott is in a linen closet somewhere and this psychopath will have her killed if he fights. Of that he has no doubt. So he sits and watches Therin shed his armor piece by piece and tries to still the part of his mind that is scrambling for a way out, tries to ignore the steady trickle of blood down his arm, tries to shove back the way his vision starts to tunnel.

Finally, finally, Therin finishes with his armor-based striptease and turns back to Caleb.

The light from the fireplace reflects warmly in his eyes and Caleb swallows nervously at his look.

“Forgive me. I have been rude, making you wait for this.” He holds the second healing potion in his slender fingers. And Caleb would like that healing potion, he won’t lie to himself on that count. His arm aches and with the little food he’s had over the past couple of days his head spins from the blood loss.

Therin looks him in the eye and smiles.

 _Ah, so that is how this is going to be._ Caleb is not surprised, no matter how much he wishes he was.

The half-elf steps forward. He towers over Caleb as he sits restrained in the chair, almost standing in between his legs. The only possible action Caleb can think to take is to turn his head and look down at the ground to the side. He does not wish to be here, he wishes to be anywhere but here, and the familiarity of the feeling of being trapped is hollowing out his chest so that he can barely breathe.

A strong hand grabs his chin and turns his head. He has no choice but to look up.

“You be a good wizard and do as you’re told tonight and I’ll see that you and your goblin friend are freed tomorrow. That sound fair? A night of fun, just you and me, and I let you walk.”

Given the situation it _does_ sound good. Rather better than Caleb was expecting, frankly, and that makes him suspicious that Therin is lying to him.

 _A night of fun, just you and me, and I kill you and your friend quickly,_ is a little closer to what Caleb was expecting. Or perhaps something along the lines of, _A night of fun wherein I murder you slowly and then do the same to your goblin friend and tell the Empire that justice was dealt, if that sounds fair._

Therin seems expectant, and when Caleb doesn’t enthusiastically agree he gives a petulant frown and uncorks the second healing potion.

“Fine then, be that way. As a sign of my good intentions.”

He dips a finger in the healing potion and brings it to Caleb’s lips, and time slows to a crawl.

Caleb closes his eyes.

He knows this part of the process, is the thing. _This is the part where I give up my dignity and self-respect and take what is being offered and thank the person responsible,_ he thinks in despair. _How do they always know? Can they smell it on me, the times I have been here before? Does it draw them to me, like moths to a light?_

And Caleb won’t pretend that he has any self-respect left after his years with Ikithon and his years on the run. He won’t pretend that he isn’t intimately familiar with the feeling growing in his chest, the empty nothingness blooming and flowering in between his ribs.

But just because he _knows_ what happens now and what happens next doesn’t mean he likes it.

Just because he _knows_ doesn’t mean it doesn’t gut him to open his mouth.

Caleb cracks his lips and wraps them around the finger and squeezes his eyes shut so he does not have to see the look on Therin’s face as he sucks the healing potion away.


	7. Chapter VII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: possibly age-related stuff?
> 
> This wholesome little slice-of-life is a flashback that falls just slightly before Caleb kills his parents. Here's the thing: I wrote this before looking at Caleb’s wiki, which says that he killed his parents when he was “around 17.” I wrote this assuming he was 18 when that happened. Because the chapter was written under that assumption (which is made quite explicit in the text), I have decided not to add anything age-related to the tags. But I wanted to give everyone a fair warning at the start of this chapter.
> 
> If you're worried about it, PLEASE feel free to skip this chapter. The rest of the story will still make sense without it.

Caleb’s chest feels like gaping pit as he stumbles back to the student apartments from Ikithon’s rooms. Physically he is not injured ( _gods, he is so tired though_ ), but he still finds himself clutching his chest with a shaking hand. The hall could be a mile long for how exhausted he is when he makes it to his destination.

After eight seconds of unsteady fumbling with the door handle, he manages to get the door to their apartments open and half-fall through the opening into the room beyond.

The set of hands that grab him as he almost falls surprises him. For a moment he wonders, _Astrid?_ Relief floods him briefly, but the hands are too strong and they are pulling him upright. That was never Astrid’s style, to use strength when dexterity or magic would do.

“Eodwulf,” Caleb croaks as he is hoisted up. Eodwulf looks him up and down, expression hovering somewhere in the region of scornful.

“What, did you not even bother to clean up before you left your lesson?” Eodwulf’s nose wrinkles. Caleb finds himself unable to hold the other student’s gaze.

“It was…it was one of his longer lessons, ‘Wulf. I am very—I am extremely tired.” And he is tired, raw and exhausted and drowning in wave after wave of shame as the memories of the hours before begin to resurface. _He knows he made noises that he had never made before. Moaned like a whore as he rode Ikithon’s cock and begged—begged—to be allowed to come._ Caleb feels a blush spread over his cheeks at the memory.

It had been training unlike anything Ikithon had ever asked of him before. He knows he did well, Ikithon had told him so, had stroked his cheek and smiled and told him he was doing wonderfully before grabbing Caleb’s hair and pulling his mouth onto his cock. But the thought of how he had _felt_ (how he feels) makes his skin burn with disgrace.

He is surprised by the look of understanding that passes over Eodwulf’s face at his words. A crooked smile breaks out on the other man’s face.

“Ah, it was one of _those_ lessons. Was it your first?”

Caleb is too exhausted, too entirely spent to hide his surprise at Eodwulf’s question.

“ _Ja, natürlich._ Have you…have you had more than one?”

“ _Ja, natürlich_ ,” Eodwulf mimics sarcastically with a roll of his eyes. “Of course I have, _dummkopf_. Astrid too.”

Caleb feels the blood drain from his face at Eodwulf’s words. For some reason, for some inexplicable reason, he had allowed himself to suppose…had allowed himself to assume that this lesson would be the only one of its kind with Ikithon.

But Eodwulf does not seem to notice the look that Caleb is certain passes over his face. Instead, he bares his teeth in something that could conceivably be meant as a grin and pushes Caleb back against the wall.

“Ha! Your first lesson! How did you like it?”

And Caleb is suddenly very, very afraid: far more afraid than he is tired. Because this feels like a trap, the sort of trap that Ikithon would revel in, and he is not sure he can bear to find out what his punishment will be if he does not answer correctly. Ikithon had required his participation in the lesson, his _enthusiastic_ participation. Perhaps this is now a test to see whether he truly…embraced what he was being taught? He can only assume that is the case, and he will not be found out as anything other than an eager pupil.

“It was…it was deeply pleasurable,” Caleb forces out hollowly, throat constricting in fear that he will say the wrong words. “Ikithon was a very…generous…teacher.”

Eodwulf’s smile has an edge to it as he leans forward, further into Caleb’s space.

“ _Ist das richtig?_ He teach you anything good?”

“I—yes, he showed me many things.”

And then Eodwulf’s hand is on the front of his trousers pulling the laces open, and Caleb abruptly realizes exactly what kind of test Ikithon is posing him now. It is not a matter of saying the right words. It is a matter of proving he actually learned what was being taught.

Caleb is exhausted, utterly spent with the earlier lesson and with the shame. The shame that squeezes his heart because of what he felt and how much he _wanted_ those sensations by the end. He struggles to push it down: Ikithon is cruel in so many different ways, but never as much as when one of them shows weakness. Caleb is 18, a man, and he refuses to be weak.

Eodwulf roughly pulls the laces open, exposing Caleb’s cock to the cool air of the common room. He cannot help the whimper that escapes his throat, and Eodwulf grunts in response, stepping forward and running his lips up the side of Caleb’s throat. He wants to tell Eodwulf to stop, that it is too much, _too much_ after everything that he just went through with Ikithon. But this is a test, and he will not fail it.

So instead he leans his head back (just like Ikithon showed him, fingers threaded through his hair and firmly pulling) and lets a quiet moan pass his lips. Ikithon had smiled when he moaned last night, had praised him, whispering _Yes, let it out Widogast, show me how much you like it_. Eodwulf makes a noise that is somewhere between a laugh and a growl and bites down softly.

Ikithon had guided his hips, when he was showing Caleb how to fall apart, had moved them with a rolling motion against his thigh. Caleb forces his hips into motion now, gently thrusting them against the leg Eodwulf has between his own. Soon enough Eodwulf is rolling his hips as well, rubbing the erection that Caleb can feel through his pants against Caleb’s hip, and finally pawing his own trousers open to free his cock.

This isn’t how it went with Ikithon and Caleb isn’t entirely sure what happens now, feels his breath catch in his throat with fear. But he does not let himself panic, tells himself that that is not what this test is about. He remembers all too well what seemed to make his teacher happy, and that is what matters now. So he huffs out a breathy, “ _Please_ ,” before leaning his head back to show Eodwulf his throat.

“Yes,” Eodwulf gasps before biting his throat hard enough to leave a mark. He reaches down and grabs Caleb’s cock ( _hard, thankfully it is hard now, he was afraid of what would happen if he couldn’t get it up_ ) and begins to palm it with slow, even strokes.

Caleb knows he is blushing. He is ashamed of how _good_ it feels, even as tired as he is, and he doesn’t even have to pretend when he moans again.

“ _Yes_ ,” Eodwulf snarls again into his ear, and his cock twitches in the other man’s hand. He feels like he is floating, as if nothing is quite real. And Eodwulf is grinding against his hip, Caleb is grinding against Eodwulf, cock trapped between their bodies, Eodwulf pumping it just hard enough. _I must be doing it correctly_ , Caleb thinks desperately through the whirl of sensation. _I have to be, he seems to like it, please gods, let me be doing this correctly._

Caleb is so tense with fear and adrenaline and arousal that he almost cries out with relief when Eodwulf comes. Caleb allows himself a whimper as the other man moans and bites down on his neck where it meets his shoulder, lets himself relax just a fraction because the test is almost over. He finally concentrates fully on the sensation of Eodwulf’s hand on his cock ( _he is so_ hard, _could cut ice with his prick_ ), lets his pleasure crest with the final thrusts against the other man’s leg, and comes with a bitten-back cry.

Eodwulf pants heavy damp breaths against his neck for a moment and then straightens up and steps back

Caleb is too tired, too shell-shocked, to stand up from the wall, so he simply watches Eodwulf pull his robes back into order, cast a cantrip to clean them, and tuck his prick back into his trousers. He knows his eyes are wide with fear but he cannot seem to force himself back to a neutral expression. He has to know that he passed, he has to know that he did this well enough.

“ _Gute Nacht_ , Widogast,” Eodwulf says stiffly and bows slightly before leaving. “It has been a pleasure.”

 _Oh gods, I failed, I failed the test, oh gods, oh gods_ , Caleb thinks in disbelief. He sinks to the ground, knees too weak to hold him anymore. _I did not learn the lesson well enough, I did everything wrong, I have failed._

He knows that he should crawl to his bed, that no amount of self-recrimination will make him have failed any less miserably, but he cannot. He is too exhausted and too afraid of what punishment the morning will bring, and he cannot stop remembering how Eodwulf’s hands felt. It isn’t fair. He tried so hard to do well and learn and to make Ikithon proud, and he has failed. And even in failing it felt _good_.

The door to Eodwulf’s room opens and he steps back into the room. He paws for a book on the table before noticing Caleb slumped against the wall.

“Gods, Widogast, are you still here?” he exclaims before grabbing the book and turning back to his room. “You need to go to bed. If you gave Ikithon half of what you gave me, I know he won’t be able to wait to get you back for another lesson.” And with that Eodwulf’s door closes with a snap.

The swing of emotions is so sharp it takes Caleb a moment to process.

 _I have passed the test_ , Caleb tells himself in shock, as he tries to tuck away his soft prick with shaking hands and to not think about how Eodwulf’s hands felt when they were on it. _I passed the test. And it does not matter that doing so felt good._

It is not until he has crawled into bed and is lying curled (crumpled) waiting for sleep that it occurs to him that it was not a test at all.

 _Ikithon would never trust Eodwulf with that sort of power, not as greedy for control as he is_ , he muses through a strange, hazy calm. _No, Eodwulf just wanted to steal some of the pleasure that comes with that sort of lesson for himself, and I let him. Enthusiastically encouraged him to, even. Oh gods,_ he realizes in dawning shame and horror, _I am nothing but a common whore and a fool to boot. I am a slut who cannot help but take pleasure from anyone willing to give it. What is wrong with me?_

And when he next stumbles back from one of those lessons and finds Eodwulf waiting in the common room; well, if he does not object to the other man pushing him back against the wall and using his body to take his pleasure, then what is the harm? He is already a whore, and another round of whoring does not make any difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to add another chapter to this fic (which will end up being Chapter 9). I was doing editing and it just felt like it was missing something, you know? So yay extra chapter!


	8. Chapter VIII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: non-consensual drug use.
> 
> As I mentioned earlier, this chapter (and the following one) has non-consensual potion use (of the sex pollen variety). If that isn't your thing, feel free to skip both chapters. The story should still make sense without it.

_I am already a whore_ , Caleb thinks as the healing potion does its work. _I am already a whore many times over, so another round of whoring does not make any difference. At least this time my whoring may earn Nott her safety._

He feels a fraction steadier with the healing potion knitting together the stab wound in his arm and Therin untying his wrists.

Once his hands are freed he rubs at the now faded wound while Therin watches him and sips his wine. He will not be the one to break the silence that currently protects him from whatever comes next. He will not invite the _whatever comes next_ to arrive by asking questions of Therin. It is no defense at all, but it is the only one he now has left.

Therin does not seem perturbed by his reticence and instead pushes a small plate of dried fruit and cheese in his direction. Caleb looks at the half-elf from under his eyelashes but chooses not to question it. He takes a handful of the fruit and shoves it into his mouth. It is sweet and rich and so very good, but he doesn’t bother with trying to savor it. He has not eaten more than some stale bread since breakfast ten hours and twenty-eight minutes ago and nothing the day before except for bread and drippings, and at this point any food will do. He watches Therin’s eyebrows raise higher and higher out of the corner of his eye as he gobbles the food, but he does not stop until the plate is empty and he feels comfortably full.

“You were hungry,” Therin eventually says in a neutral voice, as if observing an interesting bird in the sky.

Caleb looks at him again through his eyelashes, but does not reply. He can feel that what comes next is about to arrive, and he is afraid that if he speaks he will end up begging for it not to come at all.

Therin shrugs and flashes him a toothy smile and then jerks his head.

“Take off your clothes. You can fold them up on your chair.”

Caleb looks down at the floor. His heart is hammering in his chest but he stands up and begins to undress just the same.

_If I can just make it through this_ , he thinks desperately as he forces his shaking fingers to unbutton his coat. _If I can just make it through this I can leave here with Nott and never return. I can find the nearest inn and drink until all of this is nothing but a dream._

He pulls off his scarf and folds it carefully, unwilling to admit to himself that he is stalling for time. 

_I can go somewhere and get a room and sleep for a whole day and night with Frumpkin by my side._

He pulls off his battered coat, shameful in comparison to Therin’s fine cloak, and drapes it over the back of the chair. _I can go steal gold off of some poor fool and buy a whole chicken—two chickens—just for me and Nott and then we can eat them, with potatoes and carrots and onions._

He has to pause and steel himself before pulling off the spellbook holstered at his side: can barely bear to set it carefully on the seat of the chair. He catches a glimpse of Therin watching him, wine glass raised to the smirk on his lips, before looking away again as quickly as he can. He does not wish to see the half-elf watching him as he sheds his clothes.

_I can find myself some magical artifact_ , Caleb tells himself as he pulls off his tunic and drops his suspenders to dangle around his knees. _Something powerful that will make me invisible to people like Therin._

Unbuttoning the first button of his shirt takes longer than it should, fingers clumsy with tension and fear.

_Something that will allow me to drive them mad with a glance or turn them to stone._ Eventually he gets the buttons undone and pulls his shirt off before he can hesitate, unwraps the bandages around his arms. He does not remove his necklace, prays to any gods who might be feeling even a little generous that Therin will not try to make him take it off.

After untying the laces of his boots and toeing them and his socks off it takes all of his force of will to untie his trousers. He still wavers for a moment before sliding them off his narrow hips and folding them on the stool with the rest of his clothes.

As he reaches for the band of his underclothes he realizes that he has run out of comfortable lies to tell himself. Instead, he forces himself to pull them down and fold them as quickly as he is able. At this point it will hurt more to go slowly, he is certain.

As he steps back from the chair, shivering slightly in the cool air of the room, Therin steps forward. The half-elf makes a slow circuit around him. _Inspecting his prey_ , Caleb thinks, trying to ignore the sensation of his eyes tracing his skin.

Therin seems to be satisfied by what he sees, and he smiles at Caleb.

“You are more handsome than I realized last night,” he says, reaching out a proprietary hand to stroke down and up Caleb’s flank before drawing it along the scars on his arm. As he forces himself to stillness Caleb can feel a trickle of blood from where his own nails have pierced his palms. “And last night I thought you weren’t half-bad.”

And Caleb should stay silent: he knows this. He’s not stupid, he is not. Intelligence is one of the few things the gods saw fit to gift him with, for all the good it has done. But he has already lost this battle, is already standing naked and waiting in the bedroom of his rapist, and the temptation to speak is strong. _Good enough looking to rape_ , he longs to spit at Therin. _Poor enough looking to pick as your target._

_But Nott is locked in a linen closet_ , a nagging voice says. _Stay silent for her._

He bites his tongue, presses his eyes tightly closed so he doesn’t have to see Therin’s leer.

A hand slaps his ass, and his eyes fly open without his permission.

“I think you short-changed me last night. Suck my cock, and do it right this time.”

_A thousand apologies_ , Caleb thinks, desperately fighting to keep his thoughts from being visible on his face. _I was somewhat distracted, what with you drowning me._

Caleb does not want to be between Therin’s thighs yet again, would rather be fighting a dragon in its lair. But he drops to his knees nonetheless, struggling to slow his breathing as he feels fear start to flood his mind.

He has been here before, last night and so many nights before that. Somewhere through the dread clouding his mind instinct takes over and Caleb does what Ikithon drilled into him so many years ago, what countless individuals have reinforced since.

_Open your mouth_ , Caleb hears a distant voice recite in his head. _Lick the cock in front of you. Take it in, suck. Suck like a dying man drawing the last drop from a healing potion bottle. Use your tongue. Better, you useless fool, do it better, faster, more, more. Use your hands, use your lips, use your throat. Don’t gag, don’t you dare gag you cocksucker. Moan. You like this, you know you like this, if you didn’t like it you wouldn’t be moaning like a whore right now. More. More. **More** —_

Therin grabs his hair and pulls him away with a groan.

The break in his rhythm throws him, makes him blink in confusion. Before he can reorient himself, a glass vial of oil is stuffed roughly into his hands.

“You’ve whored around enough to know what to do, right?” It takes him a moment to process. When the words filter through his disorientation, Caleb bites back the empty laugh that almost escapes and instead flatly says, “Yes.”

“Get on the bed. I’ll be there in a moment.”

_It is okay_ , Caleb tells himself abstractly as he trudges across the room. _You have done this before, this isn’t the first time. It will be okay. Just give him what he wants._

And then, because he cannot help it: _It is nothing that you don’t deserve._

He climbs on the sumptuous bed, allowing himself only a moment’s hesitation. Caleb has never liked this part of the process. But, he supposes, he should be grateful that Therin is even giving him the chance to prep himself at all. So, after a glance at the half-elf, he grits his teeth and reaches down and does what he must. It is easier to go away in his head, to let everything fade to a gentle hum around him, and so he does: willingly, willfully.

When he is done, when he is stretched enough that he thinks what comes next will not hurt, he looks up at Therin (blankly: the half-elf cannot reach him through the flat blankness that fills his head: that is what he tells himself). Cock in hand, Therin stares back at him from where he lounges in front of the fire.

As if the eye contact was what he was waiting for, he stands and strolls across the room.

Despite his attempts to go away, Caleb feels his stomach sink with dread.

“Get on your hands and knees,” Therin says. He says it softly, in the same way one might speak to a skittish horse, and for some reason the lack of anger throws him worse than if Therin had yelled it.

_If anything, I should be relieved_ , Caleb tells himself. He learned long ago that this is easiest from behind. No need to look as if he is enjoying it, no need to worry about making eye contact. Only the need to make the occasional noise based on what the one doing the fucking wants to hear: pleasure or pain or both. But despite this knowledge, he finds his skin crawling as he turns his back to Therin, feels himself tensing with fear.

When Therin reaches out he cannot stop himself from jolting forward slightly.

“Easy now, easy. We have an agreement. You’re doing so well, don’t make me hurt the goblin,” Therin croons, positioning himself behind Caleb. His touches are firm and business-like, and Caleb gulps down a breath, tries to make himself relax. It will be so much worse if he does not: he knows this.

Two short exploratory thrusts and then one hard one, and Therin has buried himself in Caleb’s ass, is rhythmically drawing himself out and pushing back in. Caleb bites down on the cry that almost escapes him.

“No, no, it’s okay. I want to hear you. _Let it out_.”

So Caleb does. If it makes this shorter, if it makes Therin happy and less likely to murder him and Nott, why not be noisy? Caleb hates the sounds of his own moans in his ears, hates being a witness to his own degradation, but he does not let himself stop making noise.

It goes on for longer than Caleb thinks it should. It goes on to the point where he begins to feel it, to the point where the walls in his head start to crack and crumble a little. It goes on long enough that Caleb begins to catch himself actually meaning the noises he makes.

And when he does his walls crumble a little more.

Finally, _finally_ , after a couple of furious thrusts Therin comes. He drops his forehead to rest against Caleb’s back and pants, then pulls himself free of his ass. Caleb tries to ignore the sensation of cum dribbling down his thigh that follows.

_Perhaps that is it_ , Caleb allows himself to hope. _Perhaps that is all Therin desired and now we can go free_. But if he is honest with himself, he knows it is not.

\---------------------

After a brief break during which Therin gets himself another glass of wine and Caleb sits on the bed watching him drink it, the half-elf returns.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Therin asks, white teeth flashing in what ought to be a cheeky grin.

Caleb does not reply: he will not tell this monster that his deeds were acceptable.

Therin frowns.

“I’ve noticed that you’re not really trying to participate, wizard. We have a deal, and you need to keep up your end.”

“I have given you use of my body. That was the bargain.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stifle them.

Therin’s frown deepens, and Caleb’s gut clenches.

“The letter of the deal maybe, but hardly the spirit. I think we can remedy that.” With a flourish Therin reaches over and grabs a satchel hanging from a hook by the bed. “Stick our your wrists.”

Caleb is not sure what this new order means, and when he hesitates Therin snaps, “Do it!”

Unwillingly, he extends his wrists. Before he can draw them away, Therin pulls a silky rope from the satchel and ties it around them before attaching it to the headboard in a way that forces him to lay back and pulls his arms above his head. As he looks, he realizes he cannot reach the knots to untie himself.

_Scheiße_ , Caleb thinks in sudden dread.

He pulls gently against the rope, just to test whether he could slip his hands out of their bindings. But Therin is a ranger and he knows his craft. Caleb is, undeniably, trapped.

_It does not matter_ , Caleb frantically tells himself, trying to slow the rapid breaths that are beginning to grow ragged in his throat. _I would not escape even if I could, so it does not matter. Stay calm, Widogast, **stay calm**._

And then a bottle is being held up to him.

“Open your mouth. Drink.”

Whatever it is smells delicious: like honey and vanilla, like a field of grass baking in the summer, like the light of the sun at noon. Caleb is not a fool. Whatever is in the bottle held to his lips smells wonderful and he is terrified to find out what it is.

“I said _drink_.” The bottle is pressed against his lips more forcefully and he tries to turn his head away. He cannot drink whatever it is. He can smell the tang of magic behind the sweet scent and he does not want, _desperately_ does not want, to find out what it will do to him.

Fear burns under his skin, the electricity of adrenaline coursing up and down his restrained limbs.

“Drink it or the deal is off.”

_Think fast, Widogast._ There is nothing he can try, except for…

“Please,” he whispers. “Please, I do not want to drink this.”

Therin pauses, leans back against the headboard, and Caleb gets a quick glimpse of a playful grin before the half-elf’s hands are threading through his hair.

“Don’t worry,” Therin purrs, hunger glowing on his face. “It won’t hurt.” And then the bottle is back at his lips and Caleb knows what will happen if he resists further. He has to keep Nott safe, and if drinking a strange potion is what that costs then that is the price he will pay.

He closes his eyes and opens his mouth and swallows the potion down.

It is even more sweet and cloying than it smelled, and as it flows down his throat warmth blooms through Caleb’s core. The heat gathers in his chest momentarily, and then flows down his extremities before beginning to pool in his…

“ _No_ ,” he gasps in horror. It is clear what the potion Therin gave him does: his hardening cock is enough to tell him that.

“ _Yes_ ,” Therin hisses back smugly, watching as Caleb finds his body unwillingly responding to the potion flowing through his veins.

Therin had said it wouldn’t hurt, but he was lying. It is agony to be forced to wait and observe as he loses control over his own body. It feels like every cell is sending individual messages to his brain, whispering with pleasure and with an ever-growing need.

Caleb estimates he will be begging sometime in the next five minutes.

He makes it three minutes and fourteen seconds.

“Please,” he huffs out hoarsely, when the need is too much and he is no longer his own master. “ _Please_.”

Therin’s smirk is jagged and razor-sharp and Caleb can’t help the breath he lets out in relief at the hand now resting on his thigh. But it’s not enough, not even on the same plane as enough. And that small spark of relief stokes the fire twice as high as it was before.

“You can beg better than that, wizard. I know you can.”

“ _Bitte_.” The words babble out without thought behind them, only need. “ _Ich brauche_ …I need—I need you to touch me. I will be good. I will do what you want. Please, I need you to—” _Fuck me_ , he bites off before he can say it. The feeling of the unsaid words crawling at the back of his mouth makes him want to retch.

Therin twines one hand’s fingers through Caleb’s hair, pinches a nipple with the other. The pleasure is so sharp that it is almost pain. Caleb does not bother to try to stifle the sound of need that rips its way out of his throat.

And then the hands are removed from his body.

“No, please, please, I need…” he gasps, frantically arching his back, trying to capture contact. It is hard to think, to be conscious beyond the grip of _need_ on his mind.

“Tell me,” Therin says, mouth close by Caleb’s ear. “What you need. You have to ask for it.”

And Caleb isn’t conscious of much at this point, but he does know he doesn’t want to beg to be fucked. _To be raped_ , he reminds himself with the lucidity the brief contact won him. _If it were not for the potion I would not want this. I still do not want it, this is nothing but a lie he is forcing me to believe._

But gods. If he isn’t touched soon he thinks he will _die_.

_And given the unknown potion, that might literally be the case._

“Touch…please, I need you to touch me.”

Something sharp, something pointed, presses against his flank. Pain briefly bites through his thoughts, before his brain (hazy, so hazy with the potion) interprets it as pleasure. Caleb cries out, tries to twist away from the source before the bindings catch him again. He catches sight of Therin’s dagger, almost breaking his skin.

“You had better start being more specific, wizard.”

In the lucidity that follows the pain (that follows the _touch_ ), Caleb considers whether he can stand what is to come if he does not start being more specific. But fighting just means more pain and pleasure. And he does not think he can outlast the potion.

His body is not his own right now: his body has never been his own. It is as simple as that.

He steels himself for the words he has to say.

“Fuck me.”

“That didn’t sound like a polite request.”

Caleb’s skin is electric. It is fiery with his need to be touched. Desire squirms through his insides, makes his cock ache as it presses against his belly.

“ _Please_.”


	9. Chapter IX.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: non-consensual drug use, sensory deprivation.
> 
> As I mentioned earlier, this chapter (along with the previous one) has non-consensual potion use (of the sex pollen variety). It also occurred to me that it has sensory deprivation elements which might also be an issue for people. If either of these isn't your thing, feel free to skip this chapter. The story should still make sense without it.

There is a period of time where Caleb loses track of his body.

 _It is the potion_ , he thinks when he returns to true consciousness. _The potion was too strong. What is happening?_

Awareness returns in shards that do not fit together.

He can taste the lingering essence of the potion on his lips: bright and floral and slightly bitter now that it is not fresh.

The world is dark.

His eyes are not open. He opens them.

The world—the world is still dark.

_Why is the world dark?_

A cloth is bound over his eyes: that is why. Panic immediately rises up to grasp his heart and lungs. He tries to reach for his eyes but the rope around his wrists catches them and prevents him from moving. He strains against the rope, instinct winning out over common sense.

He arches his back in his struggles and _oh_.

 _Oh, oh, oh_ , he thinks as he discovers the potion may be leaving his system but has not fully left yet. _Oh, oh, yes, **yes**._

There is a cock still buried in his ass, a cock that is slowly pushing in and out and in again, sliding obscenely.

 _Yes_ , Caleb thinks, and then, _**NO**_.

The darkness pushes against his eyes, and the fear and lingering pleasure with it, and Caleb’s heart might beat out of his chest. He lets out a frightened whine, or at least he tries.

No sound meets his ears: not his keening, not the ragged breaths he can feel clawing out of his throat, not even the sound of flesh against flesh that ought to match the drag of the cock in and out of his ass.

He freezes for a moment, confused and terrified, distracted by the sensations still crawling up his spine and sizzling under his skin.

A hard thrust makes him arch his back again: he can feel the moan in his throat but he cannot hear it.

And then it hits him, through his still-muddled thoughts and over-stimulated nerves.

_Therin has cast Silence._

If he were himself, if he were in control, he might not panic.

 _Silence does not hurt; it will end soon_ , he tells himself, trying to slow his breathing, trying to relax as Therin fucks into him.

But he cannot hear his breaths: he can only feel them as his chest rises and falls irregularly. And as he concentrates on the sensation, as he tries to ground himself against the pressing darkness and Silence, he finds himself failing.

All he can think of is the slow and steady thrusts, the pulses of pleasure running up his spine, the hands holding his legs apart. The hands holding him still and helpless.

He screams. Or rather, he tries to scream before the Silence steals the sound from his throat.

The lack of sound makes him scream again, scream harder ( _scream louder, if he could make any noise at all_ ).

And suddenly the Silence is pressing in on him in the darkness, is eating him alive. He writhes under the body holding him down, trying anything to free his hands, to shake off the weight, to make it _stop_.

But it doesn’t stop: it doesn’t stop at all.

The hands grab his hips harder, push his legs up higher; the cock thrusts in faster and deeper ( _and better_ , his traitorous mind tells him).

He cannot fight and he cannot scream and he cannot make Therin stop, so he has no choice but to let it happen.

It is too much. It is _too much_. The pleasure still traitorously pulsing through his body climbs and climbs and _peaks_ and he is coming, he is coming, _he is coming_.

And he is screaming, _pleading_ , uselessly into the Silence, mind nothing but a whirl of static as the remnants of the potion leave his body but the last vestiges of pleasure remain.

And then, an eternity later, a horrible keening meets his ears.

It takes him a moment to connect the dots through the terror, to realize what he is hearing.

 _It is my own voice_. He thinks he might be relieved, but he cannot be certain.

Before he can decide, the body above him shifts, pauses in its movements.

“Be quiet, slut,” Therin pants. “If you make one noise— _one noise_ —I’ll cast it again.”

Caleb immediately forces himself to silence, feels dampness on the blindfold as tears leak from his eyes.

It does not take Therin long after that.

A few rough thrusts, a few more bruises painted onto Caleb’s hips and thighs, and it is over.

Therin gasps a laugh, and then begins to chuckle as he leans his sweaty forehead against Caleb’s chest and pulls his cock free.

Caleb lies still and tries to understand.

Caleb lies still and thinks to himself: _One noise and he will cast it again._


	10. Chapter X.

“ _Caleb_.”

The whisper cuts through the faint sheen of sleep that fills his head. Slowly, and then rapidly, he comes to consciousness.

The room is dark and quiet and for a moment in his disorientation he thinks that Therin has cast Silence on him again. That he is going to fuck him again.

He tries to shift but finds his hands still bound above his head, feels a body next to his own.

_Oh gods._

The preceding hours abruptly come flooding back into his mind, and it is only through strength of will that he does not flinch or cry out.

“ _Caleb, wake up_ ,” the whisper comes again, and he immediately knows the voice of Nott. But that cannot be correct, can it? Nott is locked in a linen cupboard now: that is why he is here in this bed, with the half-elf that is lying sprawled next to him.

He turns his head, and despite what his brain tells him he see Nott, eyes sad and bright and full over a gently smiling porcelain mask that has been painted with a splatter of blood.

“ _Nott?_ ” he whispers back, barely able to lift his head against the sensations that are beginning to flood his body.

“ _Shhh_.” She raises a claw to her porcelain lips and pulls a dagger (also coated lightly with blood) from her belt and begins to saw at the rope around his wrists.

As he lies there helpless it hits him: this night is not a secret he can keep to himself.

This is not a secret that he can hide away with all the others, with all the countless other secrets that pull against him like lead weights.

Nott knows.

Nott _knows_ , and he has to hide his face against the pillow beneath his head to conceal the tears that are beginning to flow from his eyes. How can he ever look Nott in the eye again, now that she knows what he has done?

But she does _not_ know, not truly, he reminds himself. She does not know the bargain that he made with Therin for their lives. Right now she simply knows of his degradation at Therin’s hands, not that he willingly chose it. She does not know him for the whore he is.

When his hands are free and he glances over, Nott’s eyes hold nothing but gentle understanding. It is misplaced—can only ever be misplaced when applied to him—but he still finds himself grateful that she does not hate him.

Caleb carefully—so very slowly and carefully—eases out of the bed.

Therin does not twitch, does not shift at all, and finally Caleb is standing safe ( _safe? He will never be safe_ ) on the floor, naked and shaking and barely able to limp away to the table.

Nott follows him, reaches out once or twice as though she wants to help him but then stops herself. When he finally reaches the table he collapses to his knees.

It is all he can do to hold a hand over his mouth, to stop himself from…

…he is not sure what he wants to do right now.

Instead, he simply kneels and quietly pants in breaths and presses his fists against his eyes to hold back the memories that threaten to overwhelm him.

“Can I kill him?”

Nott’s murmur, barely audible through the cold air of the room, brings him back to the present.

He pauses, leans against the table momentarily and collects himself. He does not have long to consider the question, but he cannot make this a snap decision.

It would be so easy to make it a snap decision. To just say _yes_.

But if they kill Therin, what then? Caleb may be useless, may be too weak to protect himself or Nott, but he is not a fool. Therin’s friends will track them, he knows, or they will try to.

 _Except that Nott has already killed them_ , he realizes, his gaze returning to the faint sheen of red on her mask and dagger, the dangerous gleam in her eyes.

He glances at the windows. The snow still falls outside, soft and thick. It might cover their tracks from any other trackers if he were to augment it with some prestidigitation.

It is still night, only three hours and eight minutes since Therin last raped him. They still have several hours before anyone comes to check on Therin, plenty of time before anyone might interrupt them.

All his gear is here, the backpack and his spell book. There is a balcony they can climb out on with the stable roof just ten feet below. They will not have to sneak out through the lower floors.

He is exhausted and it is freezing outside, but he knows that he has some strength left, enough strength to make it away from this hellhole. Enough strength to find them somewhere to hide until the danger has passed. It will be enough. _It must be._

And if he were to leave Therin alive and be recaptured…well, some of the promises the half-elf made him last night? He would rather be dead than see them come to pass.

Caleb is no cleric, but this feels like an unusually clear sign.

“ _Nein_ ,” he whispers back, extends a shaking hand towards Nott’s dagger. “I will do it myself.”

“I’ll help.”

He looks at her. The rage radiates from her eyes, past the imperturbable smile of the mask. He nods.

Slowly he creeps back over to the bed, dagger in hand. Therin does not move, does not twitch, breathes steadily, face calm despite the horrors he just committed. Nott stands by his side, carefully watching the sleeping half-elf.

Caleb steels himself, takes a breath.

 _Nicht mehr_ , Caleb thinks. _Nie weider. Nicht für mich, noch jemand anderes._

Before he can waver, he grabs Therin’s perfect golden hair and pulls his head back. The half-elf tenses in his hands, snaps his eyes open.

But before he can react, Caleb is in motion. Without thought, without hesitation, he presses the dagger against Therin’s throat and drags it across.

Blood immediately sprays upwards, drenches Caleb as he saws at the throat beneath the knife. Therin’s eyes widen in disbelief and then dull just as quickly.

But Caleb doesn’t stop.

He is too afraid to pause, too afraid that Therin will somehow survive if he stops, so he keeps sawing and sawing until Nott grabs his hands and pulls them away.

He looks away from the corpse beneath him on the bed to the goblin next to him.

She has pulled the mask down, and stray drops of blood run down her cheeks.

“He’s dead, Caleb. He’s dead.”

Caleb becomes conscious that he is panting, gulping down great breaths of air as if he has just run a marathon. His hands are still straining against Nott’s in an effort to continue their butchery: shaking, shaking.

 _He_ is shaking, he realizes. Shaking in the cold air of the room, goosebumps rising all over his still naked body as the blood starts to dry on him. He knows he will fall to pieces if he lets himself. It is only force of will that allows him to remain as whole as he is now.

He must make a choice.

So he prestidigitates the blood off of himself and off Nott with trembling hands and limps over to the table and begins to pull his clothes back on. He knows he should say something, but he cannot bring himself to speak.

When he is dressed three minutes and sixteen seconds later, he takes a deep breath and turns to Nott.

“He has food and gold and potions. Grab what you can and then we will leave.”

Caleb grabs a chair and wedges it against the door to the room and gathers up his backpack and an extra blanket. Nott is waiting for him by the table, supplies stowed in her pack.

“Time to go?” Nott asks, eyeing the door to the balcony.

“Yes. But first I am going to set this place on fire.”

Nott’s eyes grow wide, but she nods nevertheless. “To provide a distraction while we escape?”

“ _Ja, das auch._ ”

It is too easy to tap into the wellspring of fire that flows through his veins, but for once it feels good. The fire roars into life, a sheet of flames that shoot across the room to the bed and the table. It feels right, _natural_ , to channel all of the emotions he is feeling and gather them into the flames blooming around his hands.

The fire catches instantly. It is not noticeable outside of the room yet (and no one seemed to have minded his screams earlier), but it soon will be.

It is time for them to leave.

The drop to the roof below should be frightening, but the volume of snow takes some of the fear out of it. The growing flames at their backs take care of any remaining hesitation.

Four minutes and thirty eight seconds later, three hours and twenty-seven minutes after his last rape, they are at the edge of the woods, Frumpkin safely stashed in Caleb’s coat, watching the Hartshorn Inn come to life as the fire begins to spread to the roof.

“We should go,” Caleb says, the warm glow of the fire dancing through the snow falling all around them just within the line of trees. “Or else the distraction will be for nothing.”

They move off towards the road that brought them here, Caleb carefully erasing their tracks with prestidigitation, moving as quickly and quietly as they can.

\--------

“I know it wasn’t just a distraction,” Nott says without warning four hours and eighteen minutes later, scowling with her mask around her neck. “But that’s okay. They deserve it. That rotten innkeeper and all of those people who let the half-elf get away with…with what he did to you. They deserve it.”

It is 5:23 in the morning.

The sun is starting to peek over the mountains, tracing slender rays along the cliffs on the opposite side of the gorge. The snow has finally stopped and the forest around them is breathless and frigid with the clear dawn.

 _That is not why I did it_ , Caleb thinks. _It was a part of why, sure, but that was not the real reason._

“I can hear you thinking, Caleb.”

Her words startle a chuckle out of him, misting out from behind his scarf.

“I was just thinking to myself that revenge wasn’t why I set the inn on fire.”

“Then why?” Nott peers at him, yellow eyes genuinely curious. The forest around them betrays no movement, no sounds of pursuit or even of life beyond themselves. Caleb’s fingers ache with the cold, but he does not care. The icy air is so much better than the warmth of the inn behind them.

“I didn’t want him to come back. The half-elf.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was rich and important, and it was possible someone would try to resurrect him. Burning his remains will make it much harder to do so.”

“Oh.” Nott appears to ponder the idea.

Poisonous words, dripped in his ears as he writhed helplessly under the effects of the potion unexpectedly come back to Caleb.

 _I’m going to take you with me tomorrow_ , Therin had whispered as he rammed his cock in to Caleb’s ass. _I’ve never met a better fuck. I’m going to take you with me so we can do this every night. You like the sound of that, wizard? Me pounding your tight ass every night, until you can’t walk straight in the morning?_ A pause as the half-elf leaned forward and whispered with his mouth against his ear. _First thing tomorrow morning I’m going to burn your spell book, so we won’t have to worry about you doing any more magic._ Caleb remembers the feeling of incandescent horror mixed with blinding pleasure, remembers that that was when he had started screaming until Therin had snarled out an incantation and everything had fallen silent.

The bright flash of terror and despair the memory brings back makes Caleb pause and instinctively reach for his spell book to make sure it is there. Nott immediately stops and reaches over with a gentle, “Caleb? Are you okay?”

“ _Ja_ ,” he gasps unsteadily, closing his eyes and opening them again. _Alles ist Gute_ , he tells himself, _We have escaped, everything is fine. You have not lost your spell book._

Nott reaches out hesitantly and grabs Caleb’s hand. He pauses and looks over and is surprised to see tears rolling down her cheeks.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t stop him,” Nott whispers, looking down at the snow-covered ground and then back up at Caleb. “I’m so sorry I didn’t guess what had happened, that first night. And I’m so, so sorry I tried to steal the half-elf’s purse. You told me not to but I did it anyway. I knew he’d hurt you and I thought I’d get a little revenge and it just made everything _worse_. It’s all my fault. I got you hurt and I’m so sorry, Caleb, I’m sorry.” She sniffs and wipes her eyes with a dirty shirt cuff and looks back down at the ground.

Caleb drops to his knees, heart constricting in his chest.

“No, Nott, no, it is not your fault at all. I was…I was a fool, and I made Frumpkin yowl and got you caught. Nothing that happened tonight was your fault.” He reaches out and gathers her into a hug against him. He cannot help the tears that trickle out of his eyes, cannot stop their flow even as he feels them freezing in his beard. “I didn’t even fight back the first night. I couldn’t remember a single cantrip, I was so scared. Everything that has happened is my fault, not yours. Without you I would still be in the inn.”

Nott laughs a shaky laugh and leans into the hug.

“Some useless pair of vagrants we are, don’t you think? Can’t even let someone else take the blame.”

Caleb chuckles wetly as well, sniffs, and stands.

“We are almost free of the snow, I think. Another hour or two and we will be out of the worst of it.”

“Where should we go after that?”

Caleb stops to think for a moment. There has been no sign of pursuit but it wouldn’t hurt to lie low for a little while after this particular debacle.

“Somewhere quiet. If we go down the Marrow Valley we should be able to get to some village or other by late this evening. Trostenwald, maybe?”

Nott smiles a small smile.

“Sure. Trostenwald sounds good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end, friends! Thank you all for coming along for this ride with me, and particular thanks to anyone who left a comment. Y'all are the best! <3 <3


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